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THE MAID OF ATHENS, . . . minor poems, 
THE MAID OF SARAGOZA, . . chilbe daeold, 




GENEVRA., .... 




GULNARE, .... 




ASTARTE, .... 

LEONORA, ..... 
LAURA, ..... 










LARA, . 















"23. THERESA, ...... mazeppa, 85 

24. BEATRICE, PEOPnEcr op daote, . 89 

25. ANGIOLINA, making fai.ieeo, ... 91 

20. AN"AH AND AHOLIBAMAH, . . heaven and earth, . . 115 

27. MYRRHA, sAECANAPALrs, . . . .123 


29. ADAII, CAIN, 143 

30. DONNA INEZ, .... don juan, .... 151 

31. DONNA JDLIA, don jtjait, 155 

32. HAIDEE, DON JUAN, .... 159 

33. ZOE, ....'.. . DON JUAN, 165 

34. GULBEYAZ, DON JUAN, .... 167 


36. DUDtT, DON JUAN, .... 173 

37. LADY PINCHBECK, .... don juan, 175 

38. AURORA RABY, .... don juan, . . . . 177 

39. THE DUCHESS OF FITZ-FULKE, . don jcan, 181 



■ 6. 

■ 7. 

■ 8. 

■ 9. 








THE MAID OF ATHENS, . . . meadows, 

THE MAID OF SARAGOZA, . . j. r. lewis, 


FLORENCE, f. stone, . 

THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM, . . e. wood, 


TEE YOUNG HAID£E, . . . g. bkowne, . 






KALED, D. m'clise, . 

JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER, . . j. f. lewis, 

PARISINA, F. stone, 

ASTARTE n. coebotild, 

LEONORA, F. stone, 










' 23. THERESA, e. wood, 85 

"24. BEATRICE, j. w. weight, .... 89 

'25. ANGIOLINA, f. stone, 91 

-26. AN AH AND AHOLIBAMAH, . f. stone, 115 

' 27. MTRRHA, f. stone, 123 

-28. OLIMPIA, r. ooebaux, .... 137 

-29. ADAH, E. WOOD, 143 

- 30. DONNA INEZ, j. e. iewis, .... 151 

" 31. DONNA JULIA, j. e. lewis, 155 

> 32. HAIDfiE, A. E. CHALON, B. A., . . 159 

' 33. ZOE, J. bostook, 165 

^34. GULBEYAZ, meadows, . . . . 167 

1 35. KATINKA, j. bostock, 171 

^ 36. DUDtr, MEADOWS, .... 173 

37. LADY PINCHBECK, . . . . w. eoxall, 175 

^ 38. AURORA RABY, . . . . e. wood, 177 

-39. THE DUCHESS OF FITZ-FULKE, . bostock, 181 




Thtnk'st thou I saw tliy beauteous eyes, 
Suffused iu tears, implore to stay ; 

And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, 
Which said far more than words can say ? 

Though keen the grief thy tears express'd, 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast, 
Throbb'd Avith deep sorrow as thine own. 

But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd. 
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine. 

The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
Were lost in those which fell from thine. 


Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, 
Thy gushing tears had quenched its flame ; 

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
In signs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, -we weep in vain, 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 

Remembrance only can remain, — 

But that will make us weep the more. 

Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 

Ah ! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ; 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget ! 


When I heai* you express an aifeetion so warm. 
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 

For your lijD would the soul of suspicion disarm, 

And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. 

Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring. 
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear ; 

That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear ; 

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze, 

When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining. 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 


'Tis this, my beloved, wHcli spreads gloom o'er my features, 
Though I ne'er shall presume to arraigu the decree, 

Which God has proclaimed as the fate of his creatures, 
In the death which ooe day will deprive you of me. 

Mistake not, sweet skeptic, the cause of emotion. 
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 

He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, 
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow, 

Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 
When calling the dead in earth's bosom laid low, — ' 

Oh ! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, 
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow ; 

Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, 
And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 


Oh ! when shall the grave hide forever my sorrows ? 

Oh ! Avhen shall my soul wiug her flight from this clay ? 
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 

But brings, with new torture, the crrse of to-day. 

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, 
I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss; 

For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 


Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes briglit'ning, 
Would my lips breathe a flame ■which no stream could assuage. 

On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, 
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 

But now tears and curses, alilce unavailing. 

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight ; 

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 

Yet still, though we bend with a feign d resignation. 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer ; 

Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation ; 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 

Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me. 
Since, in life, love and friendship forever are fled ? 

If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 

:-'^ i ;■, ■ !m |1' -■^'SFwA; 


Lesbia ! since far from you I've ranged, 
Our souls with fond affection glow not ; 

You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
I'd tell you why, — but yet I know not. 

Your polished brow no cares have cross'd ; 

And, Lesbia ! we are not much older, 
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost, 

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 

Sixteen was then our utmost age, 

Two years have lingering pass'd away, love ! 
And now new thoughts our minds engage, 

At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 

'Tis I that am alone to blame, 

I that am guilty of love's treason ; 

Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
Caprice must be my only reason. 


I do not, love ! suspect your truth, 

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not ; 

Warm was the passion of my youth, 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 

No, no, my flame was not pretended ; 

For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; 
And — though our dream at last is ended — 

My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 

Absence has made me prone to roving ; 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 
New beauties still are daily bright'ning. 

Your eye for conquest beams prepared, 
The forge of love's resistless lightning. 

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed. 
Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 

More constant they may prove, indeed ; 
Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! 

■saw --Mj"" 


Maeioh" ! Avlay tliat 23ensive bro^v ? 
What disgust to life liast thou ? 
Change that discontented air ! 
Frowns become not one so fair. 
'Tis not love distui-bs thy rest, 
Love's a stranger to thy breast ; 
-He in dimpling smiles ajjpears, 
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 
Or bends the languid eyelid down ; 
But shuns the cold forbidding fi'own. 
Then resume thy former fire. 
Some will love, and all admire ; 
Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile. 
Smile at least, or seem to smile. 
Eyes like thine were never meant 
To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; 
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say. 
Still in truant beams they play. 
Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 
Her impulse chaste miist needs refuse : 


Ste blushes, curt'sies, frowns, in short, slie 

Dreads lest the subject should transport me ; 

And flying oft' in search of reason, 

Brings prudence back in projjer season. 

All I shall therefore say (whate'er 

I think, is neither here nor there) 

Is, that such lijDS, of looks endearing, 

Were fonn'd for better things than sneering : 

Counsel like mine is like a brother's : 

My heart is given to some others ; 

That is to say, uuskill'd to cozen. 

It shares itself among a dozen. 

Marion, adieu ! oh, pr'ythee slight not 

This Avarning though it may delight not ; 

And, lest my precepts be displeasing 

To those who think remonstrance teasing, 

At once I'll tell thee oui" opinion 

Concerning woman's soft dominion : 

Howe'er we gaze with admiration 

On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 

Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 

Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 

Still fickle, we are prone to rove. 

These cannot fix our souls to love : 

It is not too severe a strictui'e 

To say they form a pretty picture ; 

But wouldst thou see the secret chain 

Which binds us in your humble train, 

To hail you queens of all creation^ 

Know, in a word, 'tis AwiMATioif, 




Fi'om higli Southannon's distant tower 
Arrived a young and noble dame ; 

Witli Kennetli's lands to form her dower, 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; 

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 
And Angus on his Oscar smiled : 

It soothed the father's feudal pride 
Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices float, 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

But where is Oscar ? sui'e 'tis late : 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 

WhUe thronging guests and ladies wait. 
Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 

16 MORA. 

At length young Allan join'd the bride : 
" Why comes not Oscar," Angus said : 

" Is he not here 1 " the youth replied ; 
" With me he roved not o'er the glade : 

" Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
'Tis his to chase the bounding roe ; 

Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 
Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 

" Oh, no ! " the anguish'd sii'e rejoin'd, 
" Nor chase nor wave my boy delay ; 

Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 

Would aught to her impede his way ? " 

Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief 
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; 

Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief. 
His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 

Days rolled along, the orb of light 
Again had run his destined race ; 

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 
And sorrow left a fainter trace. 

For youthful Allan still remaih'd, 
And now his father's only joy ; 

And Mora's heart Avas quickly gain'd, 
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 

MORA. 17 

She thought that Oscar low was laid, 

Aucl Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 
If Oscar lived, some other maid 

Had claimed his faithless bosom's care. 

And Angus said, if one year more 

In fruitless hope was pass'd away. 
His fondest scruples should be o'er, 

And he would name their nuptial day. 

Again the clan in festive crowd, 

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; 

The sounds of mirth re-echo loud. 
And all their former joy recall. 

'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
The bridegroom's health is deeply quaff 'd ; 

"With shouts the vaulted roofs resound. 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden a stranger-chief arose. 

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows. 

And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 

" Old man ! " he cried, " this pledge is done ; 

Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me : 
It haU'd the nuptials of thy son : 

Now Avill I claim a pledge from thee. 

18 MORA. 

" While all around is mirtli and joy, 
To bless thy Allan's happy lot, 

Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy ? 
Say, why should Oscar be forgot ? " 

" Alas ! " the hapless sire rejilied. 
The big tear starting as he spoke, 

" When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
This aged heart was almost broke." 

" 'Tis well," replied the stranger stern, 
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye : 

" Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learu ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

" Fill high the bowl the table round, 

We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 

With wine let every cup be crowned ; 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

" With all my soul,'' old Angus said. 
And fiU'd his goblet to the brim ; 

" Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
I ne'er shall find a son like him." 

" Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 

But why does Allan trembling stand ? 
Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 

MORA. 19 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 

Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 
The drops of death each other chase 

Adowu in agonizing dew. 

Thi'ice did he raise the goblet high, 

And thiice his lips refused to taste ; 
For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 

On his with deadly fury placed. 

And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here ? 
If thus affection's strength prevails, 

What might we not expect from fear ? " 

Koused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 

" Would Oscar now could share our mu'th ! " 

Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 

He said, and dashed the cup to earth. 

" 'Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice ! " 
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form ; 

" A murderer's voice ! " the roof replies, 
And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased, 

Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast, 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 

20 MOKA. 

" Away, away ! let the leecli essay 

To pour the light on Allan's eyes : " 
His sand is done, — his race is run ; 
Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 

And whence the dreadfnl stranger came, 
Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 

But no one doubts the form of flame, 
For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 

Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 
Exulting demons wing'd his dart : 

While Envy waved her burning brand. 
And poured her venom round his heart. 

And Mora's eye could Allan move. 
She bade his wounded jjride rebel ; 

Alas ! that eyes which beamed with love 
Should urge the soul to deeds of hell. 




Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oil, give me back my lieart : 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it noAV, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Z(oi] f.Lov, Gag uyaTta. 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zcor] f.iou, ouz dyaTia). 

By that lip 1 long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 
By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and wo, 
Zatrj /LtoD, 6ai dyccKo. 


Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol, 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
Zcoy] /.lov, Oag dyana. 

MA. Ill© ©O: 


Is it for this the Sj)anisli maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, an owlet's laiiim ehill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay'uet jar, 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet Avarm dead 
Stalks Avith Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. 

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil. 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower. 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile, in Danger's Gorgon face, 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase. 


Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base career ; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host : 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost ? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Ganl, 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ? 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But fonn'd for all the witching arts of love : 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove. 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
Her mind is noljler sure, her charms perchance as great. 

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath inipress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch : 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek. 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! 

Who round the Noi-th for paler dames would seek ? 
How poor their forms appear ! Iioav languid, wan, and weak 



Oh never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies ; 
It has not been your lot to see, 

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eye be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks like English lasses, 
How far its own expressive hue 

The languid azure eye sui'passes ! 

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

The &e, that through those sUken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roll. 

From eyes that cannot hide then- flashes : 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 

And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 

26 INEZ. 

Our Englisli maids are long to woo 

And fi-igid even in possession ; 
And if tlieir cliarms be fair to view, 

Tlieir lips are slow at Love's confession : 
But, born beneath a brighter sun, 

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is. 
And who, — when fondly, fairly won, — ■ 

Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz ? 

The Spanish maid is no coquette. 

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, 
And if she love, or if she hate. 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'ef it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And, though it mil not bend to gold, 

'Twill love you long, and love you dearly. 

The Spanish gui that meets your love 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial. 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain, 

She dares the deed and shares the danger ; 
And should her lover press the plain. 

She hui'ls the spear, her love's avenger. 

And when, beneath the evening star. 
She mingles in the gay Bolero, 

Or sings to her attuned guitar 

Of Christian knight, or Moorish hero, 

INEZ. 27 

Or counts lier beads witli fairy hand 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
Or joins devotion's choral band, 

To chant the sweet and hallow'd vesper ; — 

In each her channs the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her ; 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 

Because her bosom is not colder : 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam 

Where many a soft and melting maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home, 

May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz. 


Nat, smile not at my sullen brow ; 

Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weejj in vain. 

And dost thou ask, what secret wo 
I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 

And vidlt thou vainly seek to know 
A pang, e'en thou must fail to soothe ? 

It is not love, it is not hate, 

Nor low Ambition's honors lost. 

That bids me loathe my present state. 
And fly fi'om all I prized the most : 

28 INEZ. 

It is that weariness wliicli springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see : 

To me no jaleastire Beauty brings ; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 

That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 

What Exile fi'om himself can flee ? 

To zones, though more and more remote. 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 

The blight of life — the demon Thought. 

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem. 
And taste of all that I forsake ; 

Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 
And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 

Through many a clime 'tis mine to go. 
With many a retrospection cursed ; 

And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides I've knoA\m the worst. 

What is that worst ? Nay, do not ask — 
In pity from the search forbear : 

SmUe on — nor venture to immask 

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 


Sweet Florence ! could anotlier ever sliare 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shriue, 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught. 
But knew him as his worshij^per no more. 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
Since how he vainly urged him to adore, 
"Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he sa^v, 
"Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze. 


Whicli otliers liail'd witli real or mimic awe, 
Their hope, their doom, their j)unishment, their law ; 
All that gay Beauty fi'om her bondsmen claims : 
And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feigu'd at least, the oft-told flames. 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dames. 

Little knew she that seeming marble heart. 
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
"Was not unskilful in the spoder's art. 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. 


Oh Lady ! when I left the shore. 

The distant shore which gave me birth, 

1 hardly thought to grieve once more. 
To quit another spot on earth : 

Yet here, amidst this baiTen isle, 

Where panting Nature di'oops the head, 

Where only thou art seen to smile, 
I view my parting hour -wiih dread. 


Though, far fi'om Albin's craggy shore, 

Divided by the dark blue main ; 
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'ei". 

Perchance I view her cliffs again : 

But wheresoe'er I now may roam, 

Through scorchinc^ clime, and varied sea, 

Though Time restore me to my home, 
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 

On thee, in whom at once conspire 

All charms which heedless hearts can move, 
Whom but to see is to admire, 

And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
With such a word can more offend ; 

And since thy heart I cannot share, 
Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 

And who so cold as look on thee. 
Thou lovely wanderer, and be less ? 

Nor be, what man should ever be, 
The fi'iend of Beauty ra distress ? 

Ah ! who would think that form had pass'd 
Through Danger's most destructive path, 

Had braved the death- wing'd tempest's blast. 
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wi'ath ? 


Lady ! wlien I shall view the walls 
Where free Byzantium once arose, 

And Stamboul's Oriental halls 
The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 

Though mightiest in the lists of fame, 
That glorious city still shall be ; 

On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, 
As spot of thy nati\dty : 

And though I bid thee now farewell, 
When I behold that wondrous scene. 

Since where thou art I may not dwell, 

'Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been. 



Theoitgh cloudless skies, in silvery sheen. 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast ; 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
The ancient world was won and lost. 

And now upon the scene I look, 
The azure grave of many a Roman ; 

Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His waveriiig crown to follow woman. 

FLOREffCE. 33 

Florence ! whom I will love as well 

As ever yet was said or sung, 
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell,) 

Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 

Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times. 
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 
Thy chanms might raise new Antonies. 

Though Fate forbids such things to -be 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 

I cannot lose a world for thee, 

But would not lose thee for a world. 


While wand'ring through each broken path, 

O'er brake and craggy brow ; 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 

Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea. 
Thy bark hath long been gone : 

Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 
Bow down my head alone ! 

Full s-sviftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When last I press'd thy lip ; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 

Impell'd thy gallant ship. 


Now tliou art safe ; nay, long ere now 
Hast ti'od. the shore of Spain ; 

'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou 
Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee 

In darkness and in dread, 
As in those hours of revelry 

Wliich mii'th and music sped ; 

Do thou, amid the fair Avhite walls, 

If Cadiz yet be fi-ee, 
At times fi-om out her latticed halls 

Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endear'd by days gone by ; 
To others give a thousand smiles. 

To me a single sigh. 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace. 

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun 

Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
Nor own for once thou thought'st on one, 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When sever'd hearts repine. 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main. 

And mourns in search of thine. 



Heee woman's voice is never heard : apart, 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
Slie yields to one lier person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove : 
And joyfal in a mother's gentlest cares, 
For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more SAveetly rears the babe she bears. 
Who never qiiits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 


They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily ; 

They scarcely can behold their male relations ; 
So that their moments do not pass so gayly 

As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 


Confinement, too, must make tliem look quite palely ; 

And as the Turks abhor long conversations, 
Their days are either passed in doing nothing, 
Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism -; 

Nor A\Tite, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism. 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, revievi^s. 
In harems learning soon would make a pretty schism ! 

But luckily these beauties are no " Blues," 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
" That charming passage in the last new poem." 

The poor clear Musselwomen whom I mention 
Have none of these instructive pleasant people ; 

And one would seem to them a new invention, 
Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple. 

I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 

A missionaiy author, just to preach 

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 

No chemistiy for them unfolds her gases ; 

No metaphysics are let loose in lectui'es ; 
No circulating library amasses 

Eeligious novels, moral tales, and strictures 
Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 

No exhibition glares "with annual pictures ; 
They stare not on the stars from out their attics. 
Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mf.tlioraatics. 

ir TT'iT Tr tr n? 


Here tlie self-torturing soishist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and fi'om wo 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, &st drew 
The breath which made him -wi-etched ; yet he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'gr erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they pass'd 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and fast. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; mth ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty, -which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd though it seems. 

38 JULIA. 

This breatlied itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
Which every morn his fever'd lip Avould greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his Avould meet ; 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more bless'd 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possess'd. 

ma M^iBB, us 


* QpatoraTT] XaTySij," &C. 

I ENTER thy garden of roses, 

Beloved and fair Haidee, 
Each morning where Flora reposes, 

For siu'ely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee, 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue. 
Which utters its song to adore thee, 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
As the branch at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
Through her eyes, through her every feature 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful 
When Love has abandon'd the bowers ; 

Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 
That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 

The poison, when pour'd from the chalice. 
Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 


But wlien ch'unk to escape fiom tliy malice, 
Tlie drauglit sliall be sweet to my soul. 

Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 
My heart from these horrors to save : 

WiU naught to my bosom restore thee ? 
Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances 

Secure of his conquest before, 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile Avould disjjel ? 
Would the hope, which thou once bid'st me cherish, 

For torture repay me too well ? 
Now sad is the garden of roses. 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all Avither'd reposes, 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 


© S M lETaA. 



Theste eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
And the wan lustre of thy features— caught 
From contemplation — where serenely Avrought, 

Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd fi'om its despair — 

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air. 
That — ^Ijut I know thy blessed bosom fi-aught 
With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought — 

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 

With such an aspect, by his colors blent. 

When fi'om his beauty-breathing pencil born, 

(Except that thoii, hast nothing to repent,) 
The 'Mao-dalen of Guido saw the morn — 

Such seem'st thou — but hoAV much more excellent ! 
With nau2;ht Eemorse can claim — nor Vii'tue scorn. 



Thy cheek is pale witli thouglit, but not fi'om wo, 
And yet so lovely tLat if Mirtli could flush 
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — ^but, oh ! 
"While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 

For thi'ough thy long dark lashes low depending. 
The soul of melancholy Gentleness 

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 

At once such majesty Avith sweetness blending, 
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 

'SaM I ILA. 


Hee eye's dark cliarm 'twere vain to tell ! 
But gaze on that of tie Gazelle, 
It "vvill assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly dark ; 
But Soul beam'd forth in every spark 
That darted from beneath the lid. 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid. 
Yea, Soul, and should our prophet say 
That form was naught but breathing clay, 
By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
Though on Al-Sirat's arch I stood, 
"Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 
With Paradise within my view, 
And all his Houris beckoning through. 
Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
And keep that portion of his creed, 
Which saith that woman is but dust, 
A soulless toy for tyi'ant's lust ? 
On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 

44 LEILA. 

On her fair cheek's unfadino; hue 

The young pomegranate's blossoms strew 

Then- bloom in blushes ever new ; 

Her hair in hyacinthine flow, 

When left to roll its folds below, 

As midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all, 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 

It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 

So moved on earth Cu'cassia's daughter, 

The loveliest bu'd of Franguestan ! 

As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, 

And spurns the wave with ■\vings of pride, 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
Thus rose fau' Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the chaims it meant to praise : 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he ? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 

I hear the sound of coming feet. 
But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 
More near, — each turban I can scan. 
And silver-sheathed ataghan ; 

LEILA. 45 

The foremost of tlie band is seen 

An Emir by Lis garb of green : 

" Ho ! who art thou ? " This low salam 

Keplies, " Of Moslem faith I am." 

" The burden ye so gently bear 

Seems one that claims your utmost care, 

And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 

My humble bark would gladly wait." 

" Thou speakest sooth ; thy skiff unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 
Nay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
The nearest oar that's scatter'd by, 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channel'd waters dark and deep. 
Rest fi'om your task — so — bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run ; 
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow. 
That one of — '"' " ■■'' 

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank. 
The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
I watch'd it as it sank, methought 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam 
That checker'd o'er the living stream : 
I gazed, till vanishing from view. 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight ; 

40 LEILA. 

And all its hidden secrets sleep, 
Kno~wn but to Genii of the deep, 
Which, trembling in their coral caves, 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 
* » * * -» 

" Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the Avave, 
But his shall be a redder gi-ave ; 
Her spii-it pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful Giaour ; 
He called on Alia — but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Payniin fool ! could Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine recorded there ? 
I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
My wrath is Avreak'd, the deed is done, 
And now I go^ — hut go alone." 

* if vt i> * 

'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then 
I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 
And shining in her white symar. 
As through yon pale gray cloud the star 
Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
Dimly I view its trembling spaih ; 
To-morrow's night shall be more dark ; 
And I, before its rays appear, 
That lifeless thing the living fear. 

LEILA. 47 

I wander, father ! for my soul 
Is fleeting towards tlie final goal. 
I saw lier, fiiar ! and I rose 
Forgetful of our former woes ; 
And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 
I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
No breathing fonn within my grasp ; 
No heart that beats reply to mine ; 
Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
I care not ; so my arms enfold 
The all they ever msh'd to hold. 
Alas ! around a shadow press'd, 
They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands, 
And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
With braided hair, and bright-black eye — 
I knew 'twas false — she could not die ! 
But he is dead ! within the dell 
I saw him buried where he fell ; 
He comes not, for he cannot break 
From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 
They told me wild waves roU'd above 
The face I view, the form I love ; 
They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! 
I'd tell it, but" my tongue would fail : 
If true, and ii'om thine ocean-cave 
Thou com'st to claim a calmer gi'ave. 

48 LEILA. 

Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 

This larow that then aatU burn no more ; 

Or place them on my hopeless heart : 

But, shape or shade ! Avhate'er thou art, 

In mercy ne'er again depart ! 

Or farther with thee bear my soul 

Than winds can waft or Avaters roll ? 

'^{i '0 'li }i Fi )^<^ J^, 



Fate, as the fii-st that fell of womankind, 

When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 

But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 

To Sorrow's phantom-^jeopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 

And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven ; 
Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer Avhich Childhood wafts above ; 
Was she— the daughter of that rude old Chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray ? 
Who doth not feel, mitil his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his siaking heart confess 
The might — ^the majesty of Loveliness ? 
Such Avas Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 


The light of love, the purity of grace, 
The mind, the Music loreathing from her face, 
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole- 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently-budding breast ; 

At one kind word those arms extending 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child caressing and caress'd, 
Zuleika came — and Giafiir felt 
His purpose half within him melt : 
Not that against her fancied weal 
His heart though stern could ever feel ; 
Affection chain'd her to that heart ; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

" Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 

How dear this very day must tell. 
When I forget my own distress, 

In losing what I love so well, 

To bid thee with another dwell : 

Another ! and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 

But yet the line of Carasman 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 

First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enouo-h that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 


His years need scarce a thouglit employ, 
I ■would not have tliee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
And his and my united power 
"Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan, 
And teach the messenger what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou know'st thy father's will ; 

All that thy sex hath need to know : 
'Twas mine to teach obedience still — 

The way to love, thy lord may show." 

In silence bow'd the vii-gin's head ; 

And if her eye was fiU'd •with tears 
That stifled feeling dare not shed. 
And changed her cheek from pale to red. 

And red to pale, as" tkrough her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped, 

What could such be but maiden fears ? 
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye. 
Love half regrets to kiss it diy ; 
So sweet the blush of Bashfaluess, 
Even Pity scarce can wish it less ! 

His head was leant upon his hand, 

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 


But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mis in the game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded felt 
With sabre stroke right sharjDly dealt ; 
Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 
Nor heard their OUahs T^^ld and loud — 

He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! 

No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
But little from his aspect learn'd ; 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 
" How strange he thus should turn away ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 
And watch'd his eye— it still was fix'd : 
She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul's perfume. 
And sprinkled all its odors o'er 
The pictured roof and marble floor : 
The drops that through his glittering vest 
The playful girl's appeal address'd 


Uulieecled o'er Jbis bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
" What, sullen yet ? it must not be — 
Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " 
She saw in curious order set 

The faii'est flowers of eastern land — 
" He loved them once ; may touch them yet. 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before the rose was plucked and wreathed ; 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message fi'om the Bulbul bears ; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He'll try for once a strain more glad. 
With some faint hope his falter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

" What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 

And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? 
Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast, . 
And I will kiss thee into rest, 
Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 
Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. 


I knew oiu" sii-e at times was stern, 

But tMs fi'om thee had yet to learn : 

Too well I know he loves thee not ; 

But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 

Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan — ■ 

This kinsman Bey of Carasman 

Perhaps may prove some foe of thiae : 

If so, I swear by Mecca's shriae, 

If slirines that ne'er approach allow 

To woman's step admit her vow, 

Without thy fi^ee consent, command, 

The Sultan should not have my hand ! 

Think'st thou that I could bear to part 

With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 

Ah ! were I sever'd fi-om thy side. 

Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 

Years have not seen, Time shall not see 

The hour that tears my soul from thee : 

Even Azrael, fi-om his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom forever 

Our hearts to undivided dust ! " 



Tbte Sun liatli sunk — and, darker than tlie niglit, 
Sinks mtk its beam upon the beacon height, 
Medora's heart — the third day's come and gone — 
With it he comes not — sends not- — faithless one ! 
The wind was fair though light ; and storms were none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet, 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though Avild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The night-breeze freshens — she that day had pass'd 
In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore. 
And there she wauder'd, heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd awaj : 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense ! 


It came at last — ^a sad and shatter'd boat, 

Whose inmates fli'st beheld whom first they souo-ht ; 

Some bleeding — all most -s^Tetched — these the few — 

Scarce knew they how escaped — tJiis all they knew 

In silence, darkling, each appear'd to' wait 

His fellow's mournful guess at Com'ad's fate : 

Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 

To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 

She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 

Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot ; 

Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 

That deem'd not till they found their energy. 

While yet was Hope — they soften'd — flutter' d — wept : 

All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 

And o'er its skunber rose that Strength which said, 

" With nothing left to love — there's naught to dread." 

'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 

Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

" Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it Avell : 
Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies ! " 

" Lady ! we know not — scarce Avith life we fled ; 
But here is one denies that he is dead : 
He saw him bound ; and bleeding' — but alive." 

She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — ■ 

So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then withstood ; 

Her o-wn dark soul — these words at once subdued ; 


She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but suatch'd her fi-om another grave ; 
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her death-like cheek the ocean dew, 
Eaise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve : 
Then seek Ansehno's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange, 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose of flight : still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led. 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Wo to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 

The lights are high on beacon and from bower. 
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : 
He looks in vain — -'tis strange — and all remark, 
Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 
'Tis strange — of yore its Avelcome never fail'd. 
Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 
With the first boat descends he for the shore. 
And looks impatient on the lingering oar'. 
Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
To bear him like an airow to that height ! 


Witli tlie first pause tlie resting rowers gave, 
He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 
Strives througli the surge, bestrides the beach, and high 
Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach'd this turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
He knock'd — but faintly — ^for his trembling hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 'tis a Avell-known face^— 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent — t\nee his own essay' d. 
And fail'd to fi-ame the question they delay'd ; 
He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all — 
It quits his grasp, expmng in the fall. 
He would not wait for that re^T-ving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 

He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look. 

And set the anxious fj-ame that lately shook : 

He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 

And know, but dare not o'sati, we gaze in vain ! 

In life itself she was so still and fair, 

That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 


And the cold flowers, her colder hand contain'd, 

In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 

As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep. 

And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 

The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow. 

And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below — 

Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might. 

And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ; 

Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 

But spares, as yet, the charm around her lij)s — 

Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile. 

And wished repose — but only for a while ; 

But the Avhite shroud, and each extended tress. 

Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness. 

Which, late the sport of every summer wind, ■ 

Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 

These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier — 

But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 

He ask'd no question — ^all were answer'd now 
By the first glance on that still, marble brow : 
It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? 
The love of youth, the hope of better years. 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest feai's, 
The only living thing he could not hate, 
Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate. 
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore. 
For jieace, those realms where guilt can never soar : 
The proud — the wayAvard — who have fixed below 
Their joy, and find this earth enough for wo, 


Lose in that one tlieir all — ^percliance a mite. 
But wlio in patience parts witli all deliglit ? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to leam ; 
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 


•\ 518. S 


The midnight pass'd, and to the massy door 
A light step came. It paused — it moved once more ; 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
'Tis as his heart foreboded — ^that fair she ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
And beauteous still as hennit's hope can paint ; 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came. 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame. 
On him she cast her dark and hunied eye, 
AVhich spoke before her accents — " Thou must die ! 
Yes, thou must die — ^there is but one resource. 
The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 

" Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaitn'd they — Conrad still the same. 
Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 


" Why slioulcl I seek ? because — Oli ! didst thou not 
Eedeeni my life iTom worse than slavery's lot ? 
Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind ? 
And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
Because — despite thy crimes — ^that heart is moved : 
It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — ^pitied — ^madden'd — loved. 
Reply not — tell not now thy tale again, 
Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
I rush through j^eril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear. 
Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do vntk home ? 
But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If thou hast courage still, and Avouldst be free, 
Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me ! " 

" Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread. 
With these adornments, o'er each slmnbering head ! 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instnmient more fit for fight ? " 

" Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard. 
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
A single word of mine removes that chain : 
Without some aid how here could I remain ? 


"Well, since we met, hatb. sped my husj time. 

If in aught evil, for tliy sake the crime : 

The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seycl. 

That hated tyrant, Com-ad — he must bleed ! 

I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 

Wrong'd, spum'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 

Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 

Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 

Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 

I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 

But he has said it — and the jealous well. 

Those tyi'ants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 

Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 

I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 

Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 

I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said. 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

'Twas false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens Insult renders true. 

Nor Avas thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despaii'. 

Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 

When wearier of these fleetina; charms and me, 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! 

What, am I then a toy for dotard's play. 

To Avear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 

If but to show how grateful is a slave. 


But had lie not tlius menaced fame and life, 

(And "vvell lie keeps Ms oaths pronounced in strife,) 

I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 

Alas ! this love— that hatred are the first — 

Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not start, 

Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 

'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now 

It points within the port a Maiuote prow : 

But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 

There sleeps — ^he mi;st not wake — the oppressor Seyd ! " 

" Gulnare — Guluare — I never felt till now 
My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 
Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 
From earth with ruthless but with open hand. 
And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 
To smite the smiter with a scimitar ; 
Such is my weapon — ^not the secret knife — 
Who spares a woman's seeks not sliunber's life. 
Thine saved I gladly. Lady, not for this — 
Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
Now fare thee Avell — more j)eace be with thy breast ! 
Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest ! " 

" Rest ! rest ! by sum-ise must thy sinews shake. 
And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 
I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 
If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 


My life — my love — my hatred — all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair ! 'tis but a blow ! 

Without it flight were idle — how evade 

His sure j>urstiit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 

My youth disgraced — ^the long, long wasted years, 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

I'll try the firmness of a female hand. 

The guards are gain'cl — one moment all were o'er — 

Corsaii' ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud. 

She turu'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply ; 
But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; 
And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound. 
Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 
He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pm'sued. 
'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 
That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 
He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 
Chance guides his steps — a fireshness seems to bear 
Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 
He reach'd an open gallery — on his eye 
Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 
Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 
From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 
Keveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 


Witli hasty step a figure outward pass'd, 

Then paused — and tui-n'd — and paused — 'tis She at last ! 

No poniard in that hand — ^nor sign of ill — 

" Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill ! " 

Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 

Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 

That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair : 

As if she late had bent her leaning head 

Above some object of her doubt or dread. 

They meet — ^upon her brow — imkno-wn — forgot 

Her hun-jang hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 

Its hue was all he saw, and scarce "withstood — 

Oh ! slight but certain jjledge of crime — 'tis blood ! 



And Lara called Ms page, and Avent his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
His only follower from those climes afar, 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung 
In duty patient, and sedate, though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come, 
Wlieu Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home ; 
Those accents, as his native mountains dear. 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear. 
Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice recall. 
Now lost, abjured, for one — ^his friend, his all : 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

68 KALED. 

Light was Ms form, and darkly delicate 

That brow whereon Ms native sun had sate, 

But had not marr'd, though in his heams he grew, 

The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through ; 

Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 

All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 

But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 

That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 

And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 

From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 

Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 

Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 

Yet less of sorrow than of i^ride was there, 

Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share : 

And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 

The tricks of youth, the fi'olics of the page ; 

For hours on Lara he would fix his glance. 

As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 

And from his cMef withdrawn, he wander'd lone, 

Brief were his answers, and his qestions none ; 

His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 

His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 

He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 

From all that lm*es the eye, and fills the heart ; 

To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 

No gift beyond that bitter boon — our bu'th. 

If aught he loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown 
His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 
In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 
Each ^\nsh, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 

KALED. 69 

Still tliere was hauglitmess in all he did, 

A sj)irit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 

His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 

In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 

As if 'twas Lara's less than Ms desire 

That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 

Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord. 

To hold the stiiTup, or to bear the sword ; 

To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more. 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 

But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 

To Avhom he show'd nor deference nor disdain. 

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew : 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays. 

So femininely white it might bespeak 

Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek. 

But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 

More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame : 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast. 

But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 

Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore 

Another ere he left his mountain shore ; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh. 

That name repeated loud without reply. 


As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
Start to tlie sound, as but remember'd then ; 
Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake ; 
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

.ai'ii Hull 



Since oiu' Countiy, our God — ob, my sire ! 
Demand tliat thy Daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now ! 

And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no more ! 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

And of this, oh, my Father ! be sure — 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 
And the last thoue-ht that soothes me below. 


Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my father and country are free ! 


When tMs blood of thy giving Itatli gusli'd- 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
Let my memory still be thy pride, 
And forget not I smiled as I died ! 



It is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard ; 

It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; 

And gentle winds, and waters near, 

Make music to the lonely ear. 

Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 

And in the sky the stars are met, 

And on the wave is deeper blue, 

And on the leaf a broAvner hue, 

And in the heaven that clear obscm'e, 

So softly dark, and darkly pui'e, 

Which follows the decline of day, 

As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 

That Parisina leaves her hall, 

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 

That the lady walks in the shadow of night , 


And if slie sits in Este's bower, 

'Tis not for the sake of its fall-blown flower — 

Slie listens — ^but not for tlie nightingale — 

Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 

There glides a step through the foliage thick, 

And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats quicl 

There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 

And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 

A moment more— and they shall meet — 

'Tis past — ^her lover 's at her feet. 

And what unto them is the world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide ? 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
As if all else had pass'd away. 

They only for each other breathe ; 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it decay. 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fiery sway. 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender di'eam ? 
Who that have felt that passion's power. 
Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour ? 
Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
But yet — they are already pass'd ! 
Alas ! Ave must awake before 
We know such vision comes no more. 


She stood, I said, all pale and still. 

The living cause of Hugo's ill : 

Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 

Not once had turn'd to either side — 

Nor once did tliose sweet eyelids close. 

Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 

But round theii" orbs of deepest blue 

The circling white dilated grew — 

And there with glassy gaze she stood 

As ice were in her cm-died blood, 

But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather'd slid 
From the long dark friuo;e of that fair lid, 

It was a thing to see, not hear ! 

And those who saw, it did surprise, 

Such drops could fall from human eyes. 

To speak she thought — the imperfect note 

Was choked within her swelling throat, 

Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 

Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 

It ceased — again she thought to speak. 

Then burst her voice in one long shi-iek, 

And to the earth she fell like stone 

Or statue fi'om its base o'erthi'own. 

More like a thing that ne'er had life, — 

A moniunent of Azo's wife, — 

Than her, that living guilty thing, 

Whose every passion was a sting, 

Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 

That guilt's detection and despair. 


But yet slie lived — and all too soon 

Recover'd from that death-like swoon — 

But scarce to reason — every sense 

Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense, 

And each frail fibre of her brain 

(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 

The eiTing ari'ow launch aside) 

Sent forth her thoughts all mid and "svide — 

The past a blank, the futtire black, 

With glimpses of a dreary track. 

Like lightning on the desert path, 

When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 

She fear'd — she felt that something ill 

Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — ■ 

That there was sin and shame she knew ; 

That some one was to die — but Avho ? 

She had foi'gotten : — did she breathe ? 

Could this be still the earth beneath. 

The sky above, and men around ; 

Or were they fiends who now so fi'O'wn'd 

On one, before whose eyes each eye 

Till then had smUed in sympathy ? 

All was confased and undefined 

To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 

A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 

And now in laughter, now in tears, 

But madly still in each extreme. 

She strove -with that convulsive dream ; 

For so it seem'd on her to break : 

Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 

S ■E' Am.® IE.. 



Yet tliere was one 

Spare not thyself — proceed. 

Slie was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into heauty : 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, but Avith them gentler powers than mine. 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
And tenderness — ^but that I had for her ; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were mine — her vii'tues were her own— 
I loved her, and destroy'd her ! 


With thy hand ? 

Not with my hand, but heart — which broke her heart — 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed. 

* •>:- -x- -:;- * -x- a -x- * 

[^TJie Pliantotn of Astaete rises and stands in the midst. 

Can this be death ? there's bloom upon her cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue, 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
It is the same — Oh, God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

By the power which hath broken 

The grave which inthrall'd thee, 
Speak to him who hath spoken. 

Or those who have call'd thee ! 

She is silent. 
And in that silence I am more than answered. 

My power extends no fai-ther. Prince of air ! 
It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 

astarte. t9 

Spii-it — obey this sceptre ! 

Silent still ! 

Slie is not of oui* order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
And we are baffled also. 

Hear me, hear me — 
Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured — so much endure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; . 
And I would hear yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Sj)eak to me ! 
For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 
Startled the slumbering birds fi'om the hush'd boughs. 
And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
Acquainted -with thy vainly echo'd name. 
Which answer'd me — many things answer'd me — 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the earth. 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 

80 • ASTARTE. 

Look on tlie fiends around — ^tliey feel for me : 
I fear tliem not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me ! thougli it te in wratk ; — but say — 
I reck not wkat — but let me bear tbee once — 
Tbis once — once more ! 

Phantom of Astaete. 
Manfred ! 

Say, say on — 
I live but in the sound — it is tby voice ! 

Manfred ! To-morrow ends tbine eartbly ills. 
Farewell ! 

Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 

Farewell ! 

Say, sball we meet again ? 

Farewell ! 

One word for mercy ! Say, tbou lovest me. 

Manfred ! 

\Tlie Spirit of Astaete disappears. 



They call'd me mad — aud why ? 
Oil Leonora ! wilt not tliou reply ? 
I was indeed deliiious in my heart 
To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 
But still my phrensy was not of the mind ; 
I knew my fault, and feel my pmiishment 
Not less because I suffer it unbent. 
That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind. 
Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind : 
But let them go, or torture as they will, 
My heart can multiply thine image stDl ; 
Successful love may sate itself away, 
The wretched are the faithful ; 'tis their fate 
To have all feeling save the one decay, 
And every passion into one dilate. 
As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 
But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 

Look on a love which knows not to despair, 


But all uuquencli'd is still my better j)art, 
DwelliDg deep in my shut and silent heart, 
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dai-k and rolling shroud. 
Till struck, — -forth flies the all-ethereal dart ! 
And thus at the collision of thy name 
The vivid thought still flashes through my fi'ame. 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by me ; — ^they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A Princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
Were punish'd by the silentness of thine, 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-gu-ded shrine, 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground ; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
Had robed thee ■with a glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay' d — 
Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above ! 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
The very love Avhich lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its Aveight ; and for the rest, 
Though heavy, lent me vigor to sustain, 
And look to thee -with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 


It. Jl, 


She was not old, nor young, nor at tlie years 
Whicli certain people call a " certain age^'' 

Whicli yet the most uncertain age appears, 
Because I never heard, nor could engage 

A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears. 
To name, define by speech, or write on page, 

The period meant precisely by that word, — 

"Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 

Lam-a was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and time return'd the compliment. 

And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd, 
She look'd extremely well where'er she went ; 

A pretty woman is a welcome guest. 

And Luara's brow a fi-o^vn had rarely bent ; 

Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 

Mankind mth her black eyes for looking at her. 

Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door. 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 

84 LAURA. 

"Witli all the fashions which the last month wore, 

Color'd, and silver pajjer leaved bet^veen 
That and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 

To some she whispers, others speaJis aloud ; 
To some she courtsies, and to some she dips. 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill. 

One has false curls, another too much paint, 

A third — -where did she buy that frightful turban ? 

A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, 
A fifth's look 's vulgar, dowdyish, and subui'ban, 

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 

A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane. 

And lo ! an eighth appears, — ^" I'll see no more ! " 

For fear, like Banquo's king, they reach a score. 

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
Others were levelling their looks at her ; 

She heard the men's half-whisper'd mode of praising. 
And till 'twas done, determined not to stir ; 

The women only thought it quite amazing 
That, at her time of life, so many were 

Admirers still, — ^but men are so debased, 

Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 

■IJ 'Bi IS ]i£, E S Jx. . 


Tiieeesa's form — 
Methiuks it glides before me now, 
Between me and you chestnut's bough, 
The memory is so quick and Avarm ; 
And yet I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well : 
She had the Asiatic eye, 

Such as our Turkish neighborhood, 
Hath mingled with our Polish blood. 
Dark as above us is the sky ; 
But through it stole a tender light, 
Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream. 
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam : 
All love, half languor, and half fii'e. 
Like saints that at the stake expire. 
And lift their raptured looks on high. 
As though it were a joy to die. 
A brow like a midsummer lake, 
Transparent Avith the sun therein. 

86 ' . THERESA. 

When waves no murmui' dare to make, 
And heaven beholds her face within. 

A cheek and lip — but why proceed ? 
I loved her then — I love her still ; 

And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 

But still we love even in our rage, 

And haunted to our very age 

"With the vain shadow of the past, 

As is Mazeppa to the last. 

We met — we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 

She did not speak, and yet replied ; 

There are ten thousand tones and signs 

We hear and see, but none defines — 

Involuntary sparks of thought, 

Which strike from out the heart o'erwi'ought, 

And form a strange intelligence. 

Alike mysterious and intense, 

Which link the burning chain that binds, 

Without their will, young hearts and minds ; 

Conveying, as the electric wire, 

We know not how, the absorbing fire. — 

I saw, and sigh'd^ — in silence wept. 

And still reluctant distance kept. 

Until I was made known to her, 

And we might then and there confer 

Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I long'd, and was resolved to speak ; 
But on my lips they died again, 

The accents tremidous and weak, 


Until one hour. — There is a game, 

A fi'ivolous and foolish play, 

Wherewith we while away the day ; 
It is — I have forgot the name — • 
And we to this, it seems were set, 
By some strange chance which I forget : 
I reck'd not if I won or lost, 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
The being whom I loved the most. — 
I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
(May ours this dark night watch as well !) 

Until I saw, and thus it was. 
That she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Play'd on for hom's, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the j^lace, though not 
That hers might be the winning lot. 

Then through my brain the thought did pass 
Even as a flash of lightning there. 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair ; 
And on the thought my words broke forth. 

All incoherent as they were — 
Their eloquence was little worth. 
But yet she listen'd — 'tis enough — 

Who listens once vdll listen twice ; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice, 
And one refusal no rebuff. 


I loved and was beloved ao;ain — 
They tell me, sii-e, you never knew 
Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis tme, 

I shorten all my joy or pain ; 

To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ; 

But all men are not born to reign, 

Or o'er their passions, or as you 

Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 

I am — or rather tva-s — a prince, 

A chief of thousands, and could lead 
Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 

But could not o'er myself evince 

The like control — But to resume : 
I loved, and was beloved again ; 

In sooth, it is a happy doom. 

But yet where hajspiest ends in pain. — 

We met in secret, and the hour 

Which led me to that lady's bower 

Was fiery Expectation's dower. 

My days and nights were nothing — all 

Except that hour which doth recall 

In the long lapse fi'om youth to age 
No other like itself — I'd give 
The Ukraine back again to live 

It o'er once more — and be a page. 

The happy page, who was the lord 

Of one soft heart, and his own sword. 

And had no other gem nor Avealth 

Save nature's gift of youth and health. 



Ok'ce more in man's frail world ; AvLicli I had left 
So long that 'twas foi'gotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision which could heal 
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me fi'om that deep gulf without repeal, 

Where late ray ears rung with the damned cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pui'e from the fire to join the angelic race; 
Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd 
My spirit with her light ; and to the base 

Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best. 

Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God ! 
Soul universal ! led the mortal guest, 

Unblasted by the gloiy, though he trod 

From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
Oh Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 


So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, 
Love so ineffable, and so alone, 

That naught on earth could more my bosom move. 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without Avhich my soul, like the arkless dove. 

Had wander'd still in search of, nor her feet 

Relieved her wing till found ; without thy light 
My paradise had still been incomplete. 

Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight 
Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought. 
Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 

StiU in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 

With the world's war, and years, and banishment, 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 

For mine is not a nature to be bent 

By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd, 
And though the long, long conflict hath been spent 

In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine, my mind's eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud 

Of me, can I return, though but to die. 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Quench'd the old exile's spii-it, stern and high. 



[Ah-giolina and MakiajS-na, afterwards Falieeo.] 

'Twas a gross insult ; but I heed it not 
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself, 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
"Which it has made ujion Faliero's soul. 
The proud, the fiery, the austere — austere 
To all save me : I tremble when I think 
To what it may conduct. 


The Doge cannot suspect you ? 

Suspect 7ne ! 

Why Steno dared not : when he scraAvl'd his lie, 

Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmering light, 

His own still conscience smote him for the act, 

And every shadow on the walls ft'own'd shame 

Upon his coward calumny. 

92 angiolina. 

'Twere fit 
He should be punisli'd grievously. 

He is so. 


What ! is the sentence pass'd ? is he condemn'd ? 

I know not that, but he has been detected. 

And deem you this enough for such foul scorn ? 

I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno ; 
But if his insults sink no deeper in 
The minds of the inquisitors than they 
Have ruiHed mine, he will, for all acquittance. 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 

Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue. 

Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words ? 
The dying Eoman said, " 'twas but a name : " 


It were indeed no more, if human breath 
Could make or mar it. 


Yet full many a dame, 

Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong 

Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies. 

Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 

And all-inexorable in their cry 

For justice. 

This but proves it is the name 
And not the quality they prize : the first 
Have found it a hard task to hold their honor. 
If they require it to be blazon'd forth ; 
And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
As they would look out for an ornament 
Of which they feel the want, but not because 
They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts, 
And would seem honest, as they must seem fair. 

You have strange thoughts for a patiician dame. 

And yet they Avere my father's ; ^Adth his name, 
The sole inheritance he left. 


You want none ; 

Wife to a prince, the chief of the Republic. 

94 angiolixa. 

I slLOuld liave sought none thougli a 23easant's bride, 
But feel not less the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend, 
The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 

And with that hand did he bestow your heart ? 

He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 


Yet this strange disproportion in your years, 
And, let me add, dispaiity of tempers, 
Might make the world doubt whether such a union 
Could make you wisely, permanently, happy. 


The world will think with worldlings ; but my heart 
Has still been in my duties, which are many, 
But never difficult. 

And do you love him ? 

I love all noble qualities which merit 
Love, and I loved my fathei', Avho first taught me 
To single out what we should love in others, 
And to subdue all tendency to lend 
The best and purest feelings of our nature 


To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand 

Upon Faliero : lie had known him noble, 

Brave, generous ; rich in all the qualities 

Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 

Such have I found him as my father said. 

His faults are those that dwell in the hio-h bosoms 

Of men who have commanded ; too much j^ride, 

And the deep jjassions fiercely foster'd by 

The uses of patricians, and a life 

Spent in the storms of state and war ; and also 

From the quick sense of honor, which becomes 

A duty to a certain sign, a vice 

"When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 

And then he has been rash fi-om his youth upwards, 

Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 

In such sort, that the wariest of rei^ublics 

Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him. 

From his first fight to his last embassy, 

From which on his return the Dukedom met him. 

But pre\aous to this marriage, had your heart 
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth. 
Such as in yeai's had been more meet to match 
Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er seen 
One, who, if your fair hand were still to give, 
Might noAv pretend to Loredano's daughter ? 

I answer'd your first c|uestion when I said 
I married. 

96 angiolina. 

And the second ? 


Needs no answer. 

I pray your pardon, if I Lave offended. 

I feel no wratli, but some surprise : I knew not 
That wedded bosoms could pennit tliemselves 
To ponder upon what they noio might choose, 
Or aught save their past choice. 

'Tis their past choice 

That far too often makes them deem they would 
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 

It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 

Here comes the Doge — shall I retire ? 

It may 

Be better you should quit me ; he seems wrapp'd 
In thought. — How pensively he takes his way ! 

\]^xit Maelanna. 
[^Enter the Doge and Pieteo.] 
Doge, (niusing.~) 
There is a certain Philip Calendaro 
Now in the Arsenal, who holds command 


Of eighty men, and has great influence 
Besides on all the spirits of his comrades : 
This man, 1 hear, is bold and popular. 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; 'twould 
Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, 
But fain would be 


My lord, pray jsardon me 

For breaking in upon youi" meditation ; 

The Senator Bei-tuccio, your kinsman, 

Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 

To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 

At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see — 
Say in the second hour of night. \JSxit Pieteo. 


My lord ! 

My dearest child, forgive me — why delay 
So long approaching me ? — ^I saw you not. 

You were absorb'd in thought, and he who now 
Has parted fi-om you might have words of weight 
To bear you from the senate. 

From the senate ? 

98 angiolina. 

I would not intemipt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

The senate's duty ! you mistake ; 
'Tis we who owe all service to the senate. 

I thought the Duke had held command in Venice. 

He shall. — But let that pass. — "We will he jocund. 
How fares it with you ? have you been abroad ? 
The day is overcast, but the calm wave 
Favors the gondolier's light skimming oar ; 
Or have you held a levee of your fi'iends ? 
Or has your music made you solitary ? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
The little sway now left the Duke ? or aught 
Of fitting splendor, or of honest pleasure. 
Social or lonely, that Avould glad your heart, 
To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved with many cares ? 
Speak and 'tis done. 

You're ever kind to me — 
I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
Except to see you oftener and calmer. 

Calmer ? 

angiolina. 99 

Ay, calmer, my good lord. — Ah, why 
Do you still keep apart and walk alone, 
And let such strong emotions stamp your brow, 
As not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

Disclose too much ! — of what ? 
What is there to disclose ? 


A heart so ill 
At ease. 

'Tis nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govei'n this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering from the Genoese without, 
And malecontents within — 'tis this which makes me 
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 

Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me ; there is something at your heart 
More than the mere discharge of public duties, 
Which long use and a talent like to yours 
Have render'd light, nay, a necessity, 
To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 


You who have stood all storms and never sunk, 
And climb'd up to tlie pinnacle of power 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and can look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port, 
Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, 
You are not to be ^vrought on, but would fall, 
As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow — 
Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 

Pride ! Angiolina ? Alas ! none is left me. 

Yes — the same sin that overthrew the angels. 
And of all sins most easily besets 
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
The vile are only vain ; the great are joroud. 

I had the pride of honor, of ]jour honor, 
Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. 

Ah no ! — As I have ever shared your kindness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
From your distress : were it of public import. 
You know I never souo-ht, would never seek 
To win a word fi'om j-ou ; but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 


To ligliten or divide it. Since tlie day 
"When foolisli Steno's ribaldry detected 
Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed, 
And I would soothe you back to what you were. 

To what I was ! — Have you heard Steno's sentence ? 


A month's aiTest. 

Is it not enough ? 

Enough ! — yes, for a drunken galley-slave, 
Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master ; 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady's and a prince's honor. 
Even on the throne of his authority. 

There seems to me euou2;h in the conviction 
Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
All other punishment were light unto 
His loss of honor. 

Such men have no honor, 
They have but theii' vile lives — and these are si3ared. 

You would not have him die for this offence ? 

102 axgiolina. 

Not noio : — beiug still alive, I'd have hiin live 
Long as 7ie can ; lie has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges, 
And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 

Oh ! had this false and flippant libeller 
Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known 
A joyous hour, or di-eamless slumber more. 

Does not the law of Heaven say blood for blood ? 
And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it. 
Is it the 2Min of blows, or sJiame of blows. 
That make such deadly to the sense of man ? 
Do not the laws of man say blood for honor ? 
And, less than honor, for a little gold ? 
Say not the laws of nations blood for treason \ 
Is 't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison 
For their once healthfid cuiTent ? is it nothins; 
To have stain'd your name and mine — the noblest names ? 
Is 't nothing to have brought into contempt 
A prince before his people ? to have fail'd 
In the respect accorded by mankind 
To youth in woman, and old age in man ? 
To virtue in your sex, and dignity 
In ours ? — ^But let them look to it who have saved him. 


Heaven bids us' to forgive our enemies. 

angiolina. 103 

Doth Heaven forgive her own ? Is Satan saved 
From wrath eternal ? 

Do not speak thus mldly — 
Heaven will alike forgive you and youi' foes. 

Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! 

And will you ? 


Yes, when they are in heaven ! 


And not till then ? 

What matters my forgiveness ? an old man's, 
"Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused ; what matters then 
My pardon more than my resentment, both 
Being weak and worthless ? I have lived too long. — 
But let us change the argument. — My child ! 
My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 
The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 
Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend. 
That he was linkina; thee to shame ! — Alas ! 
Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst thou 
But had a different husband, any husband 
In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, 
This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. 
So young, so beautiful, so good, so pm'e, 
To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 



I am too well avenged, for you still love me, 
And trast, and honor me ; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true : what more 
Could I require, or you command ? 

'Tis well. 

And may be better ; but whate'er betide, 

Be thou at least kind to my memory. 


Why speak you thus ? 

It is no matter why ; 
But I would still, Avhatever others think, 
Have your respect both now and in my grave. 

Why should you doubt it ? has it ever fail'd ? 

Come hither, child ; I would a word with you. 
Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
Which bind the good more firmly : when, oppress'd 
With his last malady, he mU'd our union. 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyalty in fi'iendship ; 
His object was to place your orphan beauty 
In honorable safety from the perils, 
Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail 


A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 

Think with him, but Avould not oppose the thought 

Which soothed his death-bed. 

I have not forgotten 

The nobleness with which you bade me speak, 
If my young heart held any preference 
Which would have made me happier ; nor youi" offer 
To make my do^viy equal to the rank 
Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim 
My father's last injunction gave you. 



'Twas not a foolish dotard's vUe caprice, 

Nor the false edge of aged appetite. 

Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 

And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 

I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age 

Infected with that leprosy of lust 

Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 

Making them ransack to the very last 

The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 

Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim. 

Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest, 

Too feeling not to know herself a wi-etch. 

Our wedlock was not of this sort ; you had 

Freedom from me to choose, and m'ged in answer 

Your father's choice. 

106 angiolina. 

I did so ; I would do so 
In face of eartli and heaven ; for I have never 
Repented for my sake ; sometimes for yours, 
In pondering o'er youi' late disquietudes. 

I knew my heart would never treat you harshly ; 
I knew my days could not disturb you long ; 
And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 
His worthy daughter, free to choose again. 
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
Of womanhood, more skilful to select 
By passing these probationary years ; 
Inheriting a prince's name and riches, 
Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
An old man for some summers, against all 
That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
Have urged against her right ; my best friend's child 
Would choose more fitly in respect of years. 
And not less truly in a faithful heart. 

My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes, 
Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 
For doing all its duties, and replying 
With faith to him with whom I was affianced. 
Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams ; and should 
The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 

I do believe you ; and I know you true : 
For love, romantic love, which in my youth 


I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 

Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 

No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 

And could not be so now, did such exist. 

But such respect, and mildly paid regard 

As a true feeling for your welfare, and 

A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 

A kindness to youi' virtues, watchfulness 

Not shown, but shadomng o'er such little failings 

As youth is apt in, so as not to check 

Eashly, but win you fi'om them ere you knew 

You had been won, but thought the change your choice ; 

A pride not in your beauty, but your conduct, — 

A trust in you — a patriarchal lore. 

And not a doting homage — friendship, faith — 

Such estimation in your eyes as these 

Might claim, I hoped for. 

And have ever had. 

I think so. For the difference in our years, 
You knew it, choosing me, and chose ; I trusted 
Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
In such, nor.outwaid ornaments of nature. 
Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; 
I trusted to the blood of Loredano 
Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
God gave you — to the truths your father taught you — 
To your belief in heaven — to your mild virtues — 
To your own faith and honor, for my own. 

108 angiolina. 

You have clone well. — I thank yon for that trust, 
Which I have never for one moment ceased 
To honor you the more for. 

Where is honor, 

Innate and precept-strengthen' d, 'tis the rock 
Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart, 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'Twere hopeless for humanity to dream 
Of honesty in such infected blood, 
Althousch 'twere wed to him it covets most : 
An incarnation of the poet's god 
In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 
The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not ; 
It is consistency which forms and proves it : 
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
The once fall'n woman must forever fall ; 
For vice must have variety, while virtue 
Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 

And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others, 
(I pray you pardon me ;) but wherefore yield you 
To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 


Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
Of such a thing as Steno ? 


You mistake me. 

It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 

Had it been so, he should — — but let that pass. 

What is 't 3-0U feel so deeply, then, even now ? 

The violated majesty of Venice, 
At once insulted in her lord and laws. 

Alas ! why will you thus consider it ? 


I have thought ou 't till but let me lead you back 

To what I urged ; all these things being noted, 
I wedded you ; the world then did me justice 
Upon the motive, and my conduct jwoved 
They did me right, while yours was all to praise : 
You had all fi-eedom — all respect — all trust 
From me and mine ; and, born of those who made 
Princes at home, and swept kings fi'om their thrones 
On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
Worthy to be our first of native dames. 

To what does this conduct ? 

110 angiolina. 

To tlius mucli — tliat 

A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all — 
A villain, wliom for his unbridled bearing, 
Even in the midst of oui" great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
The blightinsr venom of his swelterins; heart, 

CD ^ O ' " 

And this shall spread itself in general poison ; 
And woman's innocence, man's honor, pass 
'Into a by-Avord ; and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted vu-gin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort, 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 


But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 

For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; 
And his brief term of mock-an'est will pass 
"Within a palace. But I've done with him ; 
The rest must be with you. 


With me, my lord ? 


Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel : I 
Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
My life can not be long ; and fain would have you 
Regard the injunctions you will find within 

This scroll (^Giving her a paper) Fear not; they 

are for your advantage : 
Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. 

My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
Be honor'd still by me : but may your days 

Be many yet and happier than the present ! 

This passion will give way, and you will be 
Serene, and what you should be — what you were. 

I will be what I should be, or be nothing ! 
But never more — oh ! never, never more. 
O'er the few days or hours Avhich yet await 
The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
Sweet Quiet shed her sunset ! Never more 
Those summer shadows rising from the past 
Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life. 
Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 
Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. 
I had but little more to task, or hope. 
Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, 
And the soul's labor through which I had toil'd 
To make my country honor'd. As her servant — 


Her servant, tliougli her cliief — I would have gone 
Down to my fathers with a name serene 
And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied me. — 
Would I had died at Zara ! 

There you saved 

The state ; then live to save her still. A day, 
Another day like that Avould be the best 
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 

' But one such day occurs mthin an age, 
My life is little less than one, and 'tis 
Enough for Fortune to have granted 07ice, 
That which scarce one more favor'd citizen 
May van in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that day — 
Then Avhy should I remember it ? — ^Farewell, 
Sweet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet ; 
There's much for me to do — and the hour hastens. 

Remember what you were. 

It were in vain ; 

Joy's recollection is no longer joy, 

"While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 


At least, whate'er may urge, let me implore 
That you will take some little pause of rest : 


Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid, 

Tliat it had been relief to have awaked you, 

Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower 

At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers thus. 

An hour of rest will give you to your toils 

With fitter thoughts and freshen'd strength. 

I cannot — 

I must not, if I could ; for never Avas 
Such reason to be Avatchful : yet a few — 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
And I shall slumber well — ^Isut where ? — no matter. 
Adieu, my Angiolina. 

Let me be 

An instant — yet an instant your companion ! 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 


Come then, 

My gentle child — forgive me ; thou wert made 

For better fortunes than to share in mine, 

Now darkling in their close toward the deep vale 

Where Death sits robed in his all-sweeping shadow. 

When I am gone — it may be sooner than 

Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 

Within — above — around, that in this city 

Will make the cemeteries populous 


As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 

When I am nothing, let that which I was 

Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 

A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 

Which would not have thee mourn it, but remember ; — 

Let us begone, my child — the time is pressing. 





A woody and mountainous district near Mount Ararat. — Time, 


[Enter Anah and Aholibamah.] 


OuE father sleeps ; it is the hour when they 
Who love us are accustom'd to descend 
Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : — 
How my heart beats ! 


Let us proceed upon 
Our invocation. 

But the stars are hidden. 
I tremble. 

So do I, but not with fear 
Of aught save their delay. 

iig axah and aholibamah. 

My sister, tliougli 

I love Azaziel more than oh, too much ! 

What was I going to say ? my heart grows impious. 

And where is the impiety of loving 
Celestial natures ? 

But, Aholibamah, 

I love our God less since his angel loved me : 
This cannot be of good ; and though I know not 
That I do wrona; I feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 

Then Aved thee 

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
There's Jajshet loves thee Avell, hath loved thee long : 
Many, and bring forth dust ? 

I should have loved 
Azaziel not less, Avere he mortal ; yet 
I am glad he is not. I can not outliA'e him. 
And when I think that his immortal Avings 
Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
Of the poor child of clay Avhich so adored him, 
As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
Less tenible ; but yet I pity him : 


His grief will be of ages, or at least 

Mine would be such for bini, were I tlie Seraph, 

And he the perishable. 

Rather say. 

That he will sinsrle forth some other dauehter 

Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 


And if it should be so, and she loved him. 
Better thus than that he should weep for me. 

If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
All Seraph as he is, I'd spurn him from me. 
But to oui' invocation ! — 'Tis the hour. 

Seraph ! 
From thy sphere ! 
Whatever star contain thy glory ; 
In the eternal depths of heaven 
Albeit thou watchest with " the seven," 
Though through space infinite and hoary 
Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
Yet hear ! 
Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! 

And though she nothing is to thee, 
Yet think that thou art all to her. 
Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
The bitterness of tears. 


Eternity is in thine years, 
Unborn, undying beauty in tMne eyes ; 
With me thou canst not symjDathize, 
Excejat in love, and there thou must 
Acknowledge that more loving dust 
Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st 

The face of him who made thee great, 
As he hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
Yet, Seraph dear ! 
Oh hear ! 
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing. 
That thou forget'st in thine eternity 

Her whose heart death could not keep from o'erflowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 

A war unworthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear. 
For sorrow is our element ; 
An Eden kept afar from sight. 

Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
The hour is near 
Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite. — • 
Apjjear ! Appear ! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel ! be but here. 
And leave the stars to their own li^ht. 

anah and aholibamah. 119 

Samiasa ! 
Thou rulest in the tipper air — 
Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
Dispute with Him 
Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling 
Some wandering star, which shoots through the abyss, 

"Whose tenants dying, while their world is falling. 
Share the dim destiny of clay in this , 

Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
Samiasa ! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many may worship thee, that will I not : 
If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
Descend and share my lot ! 
Though I be form'd of clay. 

And thou of beams 
More bright than those of day 
On Eden's streams. 
Thine immortality can not rejsay 

With love more wai'm than mine 
My love. There is a I'ay 

In me, which, though forbidden yet to shine, 
I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long : death and decay 

Our motlier Eve bequeath'd us — but my heart 
Defies it : though this life must pass a^'ay, 
Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? 
Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel — 


I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal, 

Like the eternal thunders of the deej), 
Into my ears this truth — " Thou liv'st forever ! " 
But if it be in joy 
I know not, nor would know ; 
That secret rests with the Almighty giver 

Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and wo. 
But thee and me he never can destroy ; 
Change us he may, but not o'envhelm ; we are 
Of as eternal essence, and must war 
With him if he will war with us : wdth thee 

I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; 
For thou hast ventured to share life ■with me, 
And shall I shrink from thine eternity ? 

No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce me thorough, 
And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil 
Around me still ! and I will smile. 
And curse thee not ; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend, and prove 

A mortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and take, remain ! 

Sister ! sister ! I view them winging 
Then- bright way through the parted night. 

The clouds from off their pinions flinging, 
As though they bore to-morrow's light. 

anaii and aholibamah. 121 

But if om- fatter see the sight ! 

He Avould but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

They come ! lie comes ! — Azaziel ! 


To meet them ! Oh ! for wings to bear 
My spirit, while they hover there, 
To Samiasa's breast ! 


Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 

On Ai'arat's late secret crest 
A mild and many-color'd bow. 
The remnant of their flashing path. 
Now shines ! and now behold ! it hath 
Eeturn'd to night, as rippling foam. 

Which the leviathan hath lash'd 
From his unfathomable home. 
When sporting on the face of the calm deep. 

Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
Down, dovni, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 


122 anau and aholibamah. 

They have toucli'd earth ! Samiasa ! 


My Azaziel ! 


Enter SARDANAPALrs effeminately dressed, Ms Head crowned with Flow- 
ers, and his liobe negligently flowing, attended hy a Train of Woinen 
and young Slaves, among them Mteeha. 

Saedakapaltis, {-speciking to some of Ms attendants^ 
Let the pavilion over the Euphrates 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish'd forth 
For an especial banquet ; at the hour 
Of midnight we ■will suj) there : see naught wanting, 
And bid the galley be prepared. There is 
A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river : 
We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, Avho deign 
To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
We'll meet again in that the sweetest hour, 
When we shall gather like the stars above us. 
And you will fonn a heaven as bright as theirs ; 
Till then, let each be mistress of her time. 
And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha, choose, 
Wilt thou along with them or me ? 


My lord 

My lord, my life ! why answerest tliou so coldly ? 
It is tlie curse of kings to he so answer' d. 
Kule tliy own hours, thou nilest mine — say, wouldst thou 
Accompany our guests, or charm away 
The moments from me ? 

The king's choice is mine. 

I pray thee say not so : my chiefest joy 
Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
I do not dare to breathe my own desire. 
Lest it should clash with thine ; for thou art still 
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. 

I would remain : I have no hap^jiness 
Save in beholding thine ; yet 

Yet ! what yet ? 

Thy own sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

I think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council ; it were better I retire. 

MYRRHA. 125 

Salemenes, (coming forward^ 
The Ionian slave says well : let lier retire. 

"Who answers ? How now, brother ? 

The queerCs brother, 

And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 
* * * * * * 

Saedanapalus. • 
Slave, tell 
The Ionian Myi-rha we would crave her presence. 

King, she is here. 

[Myeeha enters^ 

'. Saedanapalus. 

{Apart to Attendant?) Away ! 
{Addressing Myeeha.) Beautiful being ! 
Thou dost almost anticij)ate my heart ; 
It throbb'd for thee, and here thou com est : let me 
Deem that some vmkno'wn influence, some sweet oracle, 
Conmiunicates between us, though unseen, 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

There doth. 

I know there doth, Imt not its name : 
What is it ? 

126 MYRKHA. 

In my native land a Grod, 
And in my heart a feeling like a God's, 
Exalted ; yet I own 'tis only mortal ; 
For what I feel is humMe, and yet happy — 
That is, it wotild be happy; but IMyf.^:ra pmises: 

There comes 

Forever somethino; between us and what 
We deem our happiness : let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 

■ My lord !— 

My lord — my Mug — sire — sovereign ! thus it is — 
Forever thus, addi'ess'd with awe. I ne'er 
Can see a smile, unless in some broad banquet's 
Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
Have gorged themselves uj) to equality, 
Or I have quaff 'd me down to their abasement. 
Myri'ha, I can hear all these things, these names, 
Lord — king — sire — monarch — nay, time was, I prized 

them ; 
That is, I suifer'd them — fi'om slaves and nobles ; 
But when they falter from the lips I love. 
The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 

MYRRUA. 127 

In those for whom. I have felt most, and makes me 

Wish that I could lay down the dull tiara, 

And share a cottage on the Caucasus 

With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. 

Would that we could ! 

And dost tlwu feel this ?— Why ? 

Then thou Avouldst know what thou canst never know. 

And that is 

The true value of a heart ; 
At least, a woman's. 

I have proved a thousand — 
A thousand, and a thousand. 

Hearts ? 

I think so. 

Not one ! the time may come thou mayst. 

It will. 

128 MYRKHA. 

Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared — 
Or wliy or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
_ Who founded oiu" great realm, knows more than I — 

But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

He did well. 

And say'st thou so ? 

Thou whom he spurn'd so harshly, and now dared 
Drive from our presence with his savage jeers, 
And made thee weep and blush I 

I should do both 

More frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou spak'st of perO. — 
Peril to thee 

Ay, fi'om dark plots and snares 
From Medes — and discontented troops and nations. 
I know not what — a labyrinth of things — 
A maze of mutter'd threats and mysteries : 
Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is honest. Come, we'll think no more on't — 
But of the midnight festival. 

'Tis time 

To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 

Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 


What ? — and dost thou fear ? 

Fear ! — I'm a Greek, and liow should I fear death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 

Then wherefore dost thou ttu'n so pale ? 

I love. 

And do not I ? I love thee far — far more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
Which, it may be, are menaced ; — yet I blench not. 

That means thou lovest not thyself nor me ; 
For he who loves another loves himself. 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 

Lost ! — why, who is the aspiring chief who dared 
Assume to win them ? 

Who is he should dread 

To try so much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets himself, will they remember him ? 

MyiTha ! 

130 MYRRHA. 

Frown not upon me : you liave smiled 
Too often on me not to make those frowns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
Which they may augm*. — King, I am your subject ! 
Master, I am your slave ! Man, I have loved you ! — 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs — 
A slave, and hating fetters — an Ionian, 
And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degraded by that passion than by chains ! 
Still I have loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature. 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 

Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fail". 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 

And without love where dwells security ? 

I speak of woman's love. 

The very first 

Of human life must spring fi-om woman's breast, 

Your first small words are taught you fi-om her lips. 

Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs 

Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, 

When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 

Of watchinsc the last hour of him who led them. 

MYRRHA. 131 

My eloquent Ionian ! tliou speak'st music, 
The very chorus of the tragic song 
I have heard thee talk of as the favorite pastime 
Of thy far father-laud. Nay, weep not — calm thee. 

I weep not. — But I pray thee, do not speak 
About my fathers or their land. 

Yet oft 
Tliou speakest of them. 

True — true : constant thous^ht 
WUl overflow in words unconsciously ; 
But when another sj)eaks of Greece, it wounds me. 

Well, then, how wouldst thou save me, as thou saidst ? 

By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren ! 

Wliy, child, I loathe all war, and warriors ; 
I live in peace and pleasure : what can man 
Do more ? 

132 MYRRHA. 

Alas ! my lord, witli common men 
There needs too oft tlie show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king, 
'Tis sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 

And I have never sought but for the last. 

And now art neither. 

Dost tJiou say so, Myrrha ? 

I speak of civic popular love, self -\oYe, 
Which means that men are kept in awe and law, 
Yet not oppress' d — at least they must not think so ; 
Or if they think so, deem it necessary, 
To ward off worse oppression, their own passions. 
A king of feasts, and iloAvers, and wine, and revel, 
And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 

Glory ! what's that ? 

Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

They cannot answer ; when the priests speak for them, 
'Tis for some small addition to the temple. 

MYRRH A. 133 

Look to the annals of tliine empire's founders. 

They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 
But what wouldst have ? the emj^ire has been founded. 
I cannot go on multij^lying empires. 

Preserve thine own. 

At least, I will enjoy it. 
Come, Myrrha, let us go on to the Euphrates : 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
And the pavilion, deck'd for our return. 
In fit adornment for the evening banquet, 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, imtil 
It seems unto the stars which are above us 
Itself an opposite star ; and we "will sit 
Crown'd Avith fresh flowers like 


No, like sovereigns. 

The shepherd kings of patriarchal times, 
Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths. 
And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 

134 MYRRUA. 

[SAEDANAPALrs discovered sleeping upon a Couch, and occasionally dis- 
turied in his Slumbers, tvith Mtkeha watching.'] 

Myeeha, (sola, gazing.) 

I have stolen upon his rest, if rest it be, 

"WMcli thus convulses slumber : shall I wake him ? 

No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet ! 

Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreams. 

Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd. 

Look like thy brother, Death — so still — so stirless — • 

For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 

Aj-e hapj)iest of all within the realm 

Of thy stern, silent, and un wakening twin. 

Again he moves — again the play of pain 

Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 

Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 

Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 

Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 

Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 

I must awake him — yet not yet : who knows 

From what I rouse him ? It seems j)ain ; but if 

I quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 

Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 

His wound, though slight, may cause all this, and shake 

Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 

Let Nature use her own maternal means, — 

And 1 await to second, not disturb her. 
* * -X- % -::• -:;- 

And dost thou think 

A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
An Indian widow braves for custom ? 

MYRRHA. 135 



We but await tlie signal. 


It is long 
In sounding. 

Now, farewell ; one last embrace. 

Embrace, but not the last ; there is one more. 

True, the commingling fire will mix our ashes. 

And pure as is my love to thee, shall they. 
Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly passion. 
Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. 

Say it. 

It is that no kind hand %vill gather 
The dust of both into one urn. 

The better : 

Rather let them be borne abroad upon 

The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air, 

Than be polluted more by human hands 

Of slaves and traitors. 

136 MYRRHA. 

Then farewell, thou earth ! 
And loveliest spot of earth ! farewell, Ionia ! 
Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
Aloof fi'om desolation ! My last prayer 
Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of thee ! 

And that ? 



Is youi-s. 

[The trumpet of Paota sounds without. 



Now ! 



Adieu, Assyria ! 

I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land, 

And better as my country than my kingdom. 

[He mounts the pile. 
Now, Myrrha ! 

Art thou ready ? 

As the torch in thy grasp. [Mteeha _/?;'<?-5 the pile. 


'Tis fired ! I come. 

\As Mteeha springs forward to throiu herself into 
tJis flames, the Curtain falls. 




\Enter Oism-TiA, Jiijing from the pursuit — She springs upon the Altar. ~\ 

She's luiue ! 

Another Soldier, (opj^o-s-'ing the former.) 
You lie, I track'd her first ; and were she 
The Pope's niece, I'll not yield her. \_T7iei/ Jight. 

Third Soldier, (advancing towards Oldipia.) 
You may settle 
Your claims ; I'll make mine good. 

Infernal slave ! 

You touch me not alive. 

Third Soldier. 
Alive or dead ! 

Oldipia, (embracing a massive crucifix.) 

Respect your God ! 



Third Soldiee. 
Yes, when lie shines in gold. 
Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 

[As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong and sudden effort, 
casts down the crucifix : it strihes the Soldier, who falls. 

Thied Soldiee. 
Oh, great God ! 

Ah ! now you recognize him. 

Thied Soldiee. 
My brain's crush'd ! 
Comrades, help, ho ! All's darkness ! [He dies. 

Othee Soldiees, (coming up^ 
Slay her, although she had a thousand lives : 
She hath kill'd our comrade. 

Welcome such a death ! 

You have no life to give, which the worst slave 
Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming Son, 
And thy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would approach thee, worthy her, and him, and thee ! 

\_Miter Aenold.] 

What do I see ? Accursed jackals ! 
Forbear ! 


C^ESAE, {aside and laughing.') 
Ha ! lia ! here's equity ! Tlie dogs 
Have as inucli riglit as lie. But to the issue ! 


Count, she hatli slain our comrade. 

With what weapon ? 


The cross, beneath which he is crash'd ; behold him 
Lie there, more like a worm than man ; she cast it 
Upon his head. 

Even so ; there is a woman 
Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such. 
Ye would have honor'd her. But get ye hence, 
And thank youi- meanness, other God you have none. 
For your existence. Had you touch'd a hair 
Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away ! 
Ye jackals ! gnaw the bones the lion leaves. 
But not even these till he permits. 

A SoLDiEE, {murmuring^ 
The lion 

Might conquer for himself then. 

Aenold, {cuts Mm, doion^ 
Mutineer ! 

Rebel in hell — you shall obey on earth ! 

\_The soldiers assaidt Aenold. 


Come on ! I'm glad on't ! I will show you, slaves, 
How you should be commanded, and who led you 
First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale, 
Until I waved my banners from its height, 
As you are bold within it. 

[Arnold moivs dotvn the foremost ; tlie rest tliroxo 
down their arms. 

Mercy ! mercy ! 

Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you tvho 
Led you o'er Home's eternal battlements ? 

We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
A moment's error in the heat of conquest, — 
The conquest which you led to. 

Get you hence ! 

Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 

In the Colonna palace. 

House ! 

Olimpia, (aside.) 
In my father's 

Arnold, (to the soldm's.) 
Leave your arms ; ye have no further need 
Of such : the city's rendered. And mark well 
You keep your hands clean, or I'll find out a stream 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 


SoLDiEES, (deposing their arms and departing.^ 
We obey ! 

Arnold, (to Olimpia.) 
Lady, you are safe. 

I sliould be so, 

Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
Death hatli a thousand gates ; and on the marble. 
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd. 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! 

I vdsh to merit his forgiveness, and 
Thine o^^ti, although I have not injured thee. 


No ! Thou hast only sack'd my native land, — 

No injury ! — and made my father's house 

A den of thieves ! No injury ! — this temple — 

Slippery with Roman and with holy gore. 

No injury ! And now thou wouldst preserve me, 

To be but that shall never be ! 

\_Slie raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe round her, andpre- 
pa,res to dash herself doion on the side of the Altar opposite to 
that where Aknold stands. 

Hold ! hold ! 
1 swear. 


Spare thine already forfeit soul 
A perjury for wliicli even hell Avould loathe thee. 
I know thee. 

No, thou know'st me not ; I am not 
Of these men, though 

I judge thee by thy mates ; 
It is for God to judge thee as thou art. 
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
Take mine, 'tis all thou e'er shalt have of me, 
And here, upon the marble of this temple. 
Where the baptismal font baptized me God's, 
I offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[Olimpia waves her hand to Arnold with disdain, and dashes herself 
on the pavement from the Altar. 



JN. ID) A M. 


The Earth near the Garden of Eden. 
\Enter Cain and Adah.] 

Hush. ! tread softly, Cain. 

I will ; but wherefore ? 

Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 

Cypress ! 'tis 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it moui'n'd 

O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose it 

For our child's canopy ? 

144 ADAH. 

Because its branclies 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem 
Fitting to shadow slumber. 

Ay, the last — ■ 
And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 

\Tli€y go up to tlie child. 
How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks. 
In their pure incarnation, ^'jing with 
The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 

And his lips, too, 

How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
But it were a pity to disturb him till 
'Tis closed. 

You have said well ; I will contain 
My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on. 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — 
Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown. 
Which were not mine nor thine ? But now sleep on ! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 

ADAH. 145 

And sHning lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypi'ess which waves o'er them ; 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slvunber. He must dream — 
Of what ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, 
My disinherited boy ! 'Tis but a di'eam ; 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers. 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 

Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the jjast : 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
Can we not make another ? 


Where ? 

Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : Avhere'er thou art, I feel not 

The want of this so much regretted Eden. 

Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 

And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 

To whom we owe so much besides our birth ? 

Yes — death, too, is among the debts we owe her. 

Cain ! that proud spirit who withdrew thee hence, 
Hath sadden'd thine still deei:)er. I had hoped 

The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 

146 ADAH. 

Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
. Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him. 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

So soon ? 

'Tis scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 

To tne^ but only liours upon the sun. 

And yet I have approach'd that sun, and seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

Hardly hours. 

The mind then hath capacity of time, 
And measures it by that which it beholds, 
Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
I had beheld the immemorial works 
Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds ; 
And, gazing on eternity, methought 
I had borrow'd more bj^ a few drops of ages 
From its immensity ; but now I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
That I was nothinof ! 

ADAH. 147 

"WTierefore said lie so ? 
Jeliovali said not that. 

No : lie contents liim 

With making ns the nothing which we are ; 
And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
Eden and Immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what ? 

Thou know'st — 

Even for our parents' en-or. 

What is that 

To us ? they sinn'd, then let tliem die ! 

Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thought 
Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would I coiild die for them, so they might live ! 

Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
Might satiate the insatiable of life. 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 
Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, 
Nor hand it clown to those who spring from him. 

How know we that some such atonement one clay 
May not redeem our race ? 

148 ADAH. 

By sacrificing 

The liaiTuless for the guilty ? what atonement 

Were there ? why, %ve are innocent : what have we 

Done, that we must be victims for a deed 

Before our birth, or need have victims to 

Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 

If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 

Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain : thy words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Then leave me ! 


Though thy Cod left thee. 

Say, what have we here ? 

The fruits of the earth, the early, beautifal 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers and fruits. 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 

I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the sun 
Accordino; to the curse ! — must I do more ? 
For what should I be gentle ? for a war 
With all the elements ere they will yield 

ADAH. 140 

The bread we eat ? For wliat must I be grateful ? 

For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 

Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing — 

For nothing shall I be an hypocrite. 

And seem Avell-pleased Avith pain ? For what should I 

Be contrite ? for my father's sin, already 

Expiate with what we all have undergone. 

And to be more than expiated by 

The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 

Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there, 

The germs of an eternal misery 

To myriads is within him ! better 'twere 

I snatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 

The rocks, than let him liA^e to 

Oh, my God ! 

Touch not the child — my child ! thy child ! Oh Cain ! 

Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the power 
Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 

Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 

I said, 

'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give 

Life to so much of sorroAV as he must 

Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 

150 ADAH. 

That saying jars you, let us only say — 
'Twere better that lie never had been born. 

Oh, do not say so ! Where were then the joys. 
The mother's joys of watching, nourishing. 
And lo\T[ng him ? Soft ! he awakes. Sweet Enoch ! 

\_8he goes to the child. 
Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life. 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 
How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 
For then we are all alike ; is't not so, Cain ? 
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflected in each other ; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
When thoit art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 
And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine. 
To hail his father ; while his little form 
Flutters as Aving'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! 
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too. 

Bless thee, boy ! 

If that a mortal blessing may avail thee. 

To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 

It shall. 




A LEAENED lady, famed 

For every brancli of every science known — 
In every Christian language ever named, 

Witli virtues equall'd by Iter wit alone, 
Slie made tlie cleverest peof)le quite ashamed, 

And even the good with inward envy groan, 
Finding themselves so very much exceeded 
In their own way by all the things that she did. 

Her memory was a mine : she kneAv by heart 
All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 

So that if any actor miss'd his part 

She could have served him for the prompter's copy ; 

For her Feinagle's were a useless art, 

And he himself obliged to shut up shop — he 

Could never make a memory so fine as 

That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez. 

152 DO^fNA INEZ. 

Her favorite science was the matliematical, 
Her noblest virtue vs^as her magnanimity, 

Her vi^it (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic all, 
Her serious sayings clarken'd to sublimity ; 

In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity. 

Her evening silk, or, in the summer^ muslin. 

And other stuffs, Avith which I won't stay puzzling. 

Some women use their tongues — she looKd a lecture. 
Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, 

An all-in-all sufficient self-director. 

Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Komilly, 

The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, 
Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 

One sad example more, that " All is vanity," — 

(The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity.") 

In short, she Avas a Avalking calculation. 

Miss Edgeworth's novels stejDping from their covers. 

Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, 

Or " Ccelebs' Wife " set out in quest of lovers, 

Morality's prim personification. 

In Avhich not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 

To others' share let " female errors fall," 

For she had not even one — the worst of all. 

Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel — 
Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 

So far above the cunning powers of hell, 

Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 


Even her minutest motions went as well 

As those of the best time-piece made by Harrison : 
In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 
Save thine " incomparable oil," Macassar ! 

Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 

Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, 
And such, indeed, she Avas in her moralities ; 

But then she had a devil of a spirit. 

And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, 

And let few ojiportunities escape 

Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 

This was an easy matter with a man 

Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 

And even the wisest, do the best they can. 

Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 

That you might " brain them with their lady's fan ; " 
And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard. 

And fans turn into falchions in fair hands. 

And why and wherefore no one understands. 

Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 

For some time an unhappy sort of life. 
Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead ; 

They lived respectably as man and wife. 
Their conduct was exceedingly Avell-bred, 

And gave no outward signs of inward strife. 
Until at length the smother'd fire broke out, 

And put the business past all kind of doubt. 



For Inez call'cl some druggists, and pliysicians, 
And tried to prove lier loving lord was mad^ 

But as lie tad some lucid intermissions, 
She next decided he was only had; 

Yet when they ask'd her for her depositions, 
No sort of explanation could be had. 

Save that her dnty both to man and God 

Kequired this conduct — which seem'd very odd. 

She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, 
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters. 

All which might, if occasion served, be quoted ; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors. 

Besides her good old grandmother, (who doted ;) 
The hearers of her case became repeaters. 

Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges. 

Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 

And then this best and meekest woman bore 
With such serenity her husband's woes, 

Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore. 

Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose 

Never to say a word about them more — 
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 

And saw liis agonies with such sublimity. 

That all the world esclaim'd, " What magnanimity ! " 

'*' . ..\*i~i-''*".'"iS>.» 

«)) ;.Y:fr.A. J m ILIA. 



The darkness of her Oriental eye 

Accorded witli her Moorisli origin ; 
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 

In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, 

Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
Her great great grandmamma chose to remain. 

Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
Was large and dark, stippressing half its fire 

Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 

And love than either ; and there would arise 
A something in them which was not desu-e. 

But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 

Which straggled through and chasten'd down the whole. 


Her glossy hail" was cluster'd o'er a brow 

Briglit witli intelligence, and fair, and smooth ; 

Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, 
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 

Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, 
As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 

Possess'd an air and grace by no means common : 

Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 

Caress'd hun often — such a thing might be 

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled. 
When she had twenty years, and thii'teen he ; 

But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
When he was sixteen, Julia twenty-three ; 

These few short years make wondrous alterations. 

Particularly amongst sunburnt nations. 

Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 

Changed ; for the dame grew distant, the youth shy, 

Their looks cast down, their greetings almost dumb. 
And much embarrassment in either eye : 

There sm-ely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 

Yet Julia's A^ery coldness still was kind. 
And tremulously gentle her small hand 

Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 


And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 

'Twas but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 
Wrought change with all Ai-mida's fairy art 
Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 
She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile, 

As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store 

She must not own, but cherish'd more the while 

For that compression in its burning core ; 
Even innocence itself has many a wile, 

And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 

And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 
Even by its darkness ; as the blackest sky 

Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 

Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, 

And in whatever aspect it arrays 
Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ; 

Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, 

Ai'e masks it often wears, and still too late. 

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression, 

And stolen glances sweeter for the theft. 
And bui'ning blushes, though for no transgression. 

Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left ; 
All these are little preludes to possession, 

Of which young passion cannot be bereft. 
And merely tend to show how greatly love is 
Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 


How beautiful she look'd ! lier conscious heart 
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. 

Oh Love ! how perfect in thy mystic art, 

Strengthening the Aveak, and trampling on the strong 

How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along — 

The precipice she stood on was immense, 

So was her creed in her own innocence. 

'' ,<^ 

JEH A I '''d< IK 3V 


Hee brow was overliung witli coins of gold, 
That sparkled o'er tlie aubiu'n of her hair, 

Her clustering hau*, whose longer locks were roll'd 
In braids behind ; and though her stature were 

Even of the highest for a female mould. 

They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 

There was a something which bespoke command, 

As one who was a lady in the land. 

Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 

Were black as death, their lashes the same hue. 

Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
Dee J) est attraction ; for when to the view 

Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies. 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest aiTOW flew ; 

'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length. 

And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 

160 HAIDfiE. 

Her brow was white and low, her cheek's -puve dj-e 
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 

Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make us sigh 
Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 

Fit for the model of a statuary, 

(A race of mere impostors, when all's done — • 

I've seen much finer women, ripe and real. 

Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal.) 

And such was she, the lady of the cave : 

Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 
Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave ; 

For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 
Brio;ht hues when out of doors, and vet, while wave 

Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 
The basquina and the mantilla, they 

Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

But with our damsel this was not the case : 
Her dress" was many-color'd, finely spun ; 

Her locks cmi'd negligently round her face, 

But through them gold and gems profusely shone ; 

Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 

Flow'd in her veil, and many a jjrecious stone 

Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking, 

Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 

And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 

From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, 

HAIDEE. 161 

Like to a torrent wLicli a mountain's base, 

That overpowers some Alpiae river's rusL, 
Cliecks to a lake, wkose vi^aves in circles spread ; 
Or the Eed Sea — but the sea is not red. 

And down tlie cliif tke island vii-gin came. 

And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 

While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 

Taking her for a sister ; just the same 

Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, 

Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fail'. 

Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. 

And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd 

All tunidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
That like an infant Juan sweetly slej)t ; 

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe, 
(For sleep is awful,) and on tiptoe crept 

And ■wrapp'd him closer, lest the air, too raw. 
Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death 
Blent, with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn breath. 

He ■svoke and gazed, and would have slept again. 
But the fail" face Avhich met his eyes forbade 

Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
Had fiii-ther sleep a further pleasure made ; 

For Avoman's face was never form'd in vain 
For Juan, so that even Avhen he pray'd 

Pie ttu'n'd fi'om grisly saints, and martyrs hairy. 

To the sAveet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 

162 HAIDfiE. 

And thus upon his elbow lie arose, 

And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek 

The pale contended with the pm-ple rose, 
As with an effort she began to speak ; 

Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose. 
Although she told him, in good modern Greek, 

With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, 

That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat. 

Now Juan could not understand a Avord, 
Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear. 

And her voice was the warble of a bird. 
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, 

That finer, simpler music, ne'er was heard ; 
The sort of sound we echo with a tear. 

Without knomng why — an overpowering tone. 

Whence Melody descends as from a throne. 

* * * * * -;f 

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 

She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow ; 

Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise — 

'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow ; 

With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, 
All gold and crimson shone her j click's felloAv, 

And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, 

Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold. 

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, 
The limb which it adoru'd its only mould ; 

HAIDEE. 163 

So beautiful — its very sliape would charm, 
And clinging as if loath to lose its hold, 
The jjurest ore enclosed the whitest shin 
That e'er by precious metal was held in. 

Around, as princess of her father's land, 

A like gold bar above her instep roll'd, 
Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand ; 

Her hair was stan''d with gems ; her veil's fine fold 
Below her breast was fasten'd with a band 

Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 
Her orange sUk full Turkish trousers farl'd 
Above the prettiest ankle in the world. 

Her hair's long aubm-n waves down to her heel 
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 

Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal 
Her person if allow'd at large to run, 

And still they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shim 

Theii' bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began 

To oflfer his young pinion as her fan. 

Koimd her she made an atmosphere of life. 
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes. 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies. 

And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 

Her overpowering presence made you feel 

It would not be idolatrj- to kneel. 

164 HAIDEE. 

Her eyelashes, thougli dark as nigit, were tinged, 
(It is tlie country's custom,) but in vain ; 

For tliose large black eyes were so blackly fringed. 
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, 

And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
Her nails were touch'd with henna ; but again 

The power of art Avas turn'd to nothing, for 

They could not look more rosy than before. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
The skin relieved ap]3ear more fairly fair ; 

She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 

On mountain tops more heavenly white than her ; 

The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
She was so like a vision ; I might err. 

But Shakspeare also says, 'tis very silly 

" To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 

z: ® 3 


The other female's dress was not unlike, 

But of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike, 

Her hair had silver only, boiind to be 
Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike, 

Was coarser ; and her air, though finn, less free ; 
Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

She knew that the best feelings must have victual. 
And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be ; 

Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, 
And felt her veins chill'd by the neighboring sea ; 

And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 
I can't say that she gave them any tea. 

But there were eggs, fi'uit, coffee, bread, fish, honey, 

With Scio wine, — and all for love, not money. 

166 ZOE. 

And Zoe, Avhen the eggs Avere ready, and 

The coffee made, Avould fain haA^e AA'aken'd Juan ; 

But Haidee stopp'd her Avith her quick small hand, 
And AAQthout Avord, a sign her finger dreAV on 

Her lip, Avhich Zoe needs must understand ; 

And the first breakfast spoil'd, prepared a neAV one, 

Because her mistress Avould not let her break 

That sleep Avhich seem'd as it Avould ne'er aAv^ake. 


Hee presence was as lofty as Iter state ; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
Whose force description only would abate : 

I'd rather leave it much to your own mind, 
Than lessen it by what I could relate 

Of forms and features ; it would strike you blind 
Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 

She spake some words to her attendants, who 
Comjjosed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 

And Avere all clad alike ; like Juan, too, 
Who wore theu- imiform, by Baba chosen ; 

They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew. 

Which might have call'd Diana's chorus " cousin," 

As far as outward show may correspond ; 

I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 


They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring, 

But not by the same door through which came in 

Baba and Juan, which last stood adinu'ing. 
At some small distance, all he saw within 

This strange saloon, much fitted for inspu-ing 
Marvel and praise ; for both or none things win ; 

And I must say, I ne'er could see the very 

Great happiness of the " Nil Admirari." 

Baba, when all the damsels were withdi'awn, 
Motion'd to Juan to approach, and then 

A second time desired him to kneel doAvn, 
And kiss the lady's foot ; which maxim when 

He heard repeated, Juan mth a frown 
Drew himself up to his fall height again. 

And said, " It grieved him, but he could not stoop 

To any shoe, unless it shod the Pojdc." 

Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride. 

Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 

He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 
About a bow-string — quite in vain ; not yet 

Would Juan bend, though 'twere to Mahomet's bride : 
There's nothing in the world like etiquette 

In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 

As also at the race and county balls. 

He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 
About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 

The blood of aU his line's Castilian lords 
Boil'd in his viens, and rather than descend 


To staiu his pedigree a thousand swords 

A thousand times of him had made an end ; 
At length perceiving the '■'■foot " could not stand, 
Baba proposed that he should Mss the hand. 

Here was an honorable compromise, 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest. 
Where they might meet in much more peaceful guise ; 

And Juan now his wUlingness express'd. 
To use all fit and proper courtesies. 

Adding, that this was commonest and best. 
For through the South the custom stUl commands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 

The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 

Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, 
As if well used to the retreating trade ; 

And taking hints in good part all the while. 
He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid. 

And looking on him with a sort of smile, 
Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction. 
As good men wear who have done a virtuous action. 

When he was gone, there was a sudden change 
I know not what might be the lady's thought. 

But o'er her bright brow flash'd a tumult strange. 
And into her clear cheek the blood was brought, 

Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 

The verge of Heaven ; and in her large eyes wrought, 

A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, 

Of half voluptuousness and half command. 



Her very smile was iaughty, tliougli so sweet ; 

Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
There was a self-will even in Ler small feet, 

As though they were quite conscious of her station — 
They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 

Her state, (it is the custom of her nation,) 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride, (thank Heaven, not mine !) 

To hear and to obey " had been from bii'th 

The law of all around her ; to fulfil 
All fantasies which yielded joy or mii'th. 

Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will ; 
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth : 

Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still ; 
Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion 
We should have found out the " perpetual motion." 

Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought ; 

"Whate'er she did not see, if she supj)osed 
It might be seen, with diligence was sought, 

And when 'twas found straightway the bargain closed : 
There was no end unto the things she bought. 

Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, 
The women pardon'd all except her face. 



And yet tliey liad tlieir little jealousies, 
Like all tlie rest ; but upon tMs occasion, 

Whetlier there are sucli things as sympathies 
Without our knowledge or our approbation, 

Although they could not see through his disguise, 
All felt a soft kind of concatenation. 

Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 

You please — we will not quarrel about that : 

But certain 'tis they all felt for theii" new 
Companion something newer stUl, as 'twere 

A sentimental fi'iendship through and through, 
Extremely pure, which made them all concur 

In -wishing her theii* sister, save a few 

Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, 

Whom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 

They would prefer to Padisha or Pacha. 


Of tliose who liad most genius for this sort 
Of sentimental friendshij), there were three, 

Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu ; in short, 
(To save description,) fair as fair can be 

Were they, according to the best report, 
Though differing in stature and degree. 

And clime and time, and country and complexion ; 

They aU alike admired theii" new connection. 

Lolah was dusk as India and as warm ; 

Katinka was a Georgian, white and red. 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm. 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to tread, 
But rather skim the earth. 




A KESTD of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudii, 
Yet veiy fit to " murder sleep," in tliose 

Who gazed upon lier cheek's transcendent hue, 
Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 

Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true. 
Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose ; 

Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where 

It would not spoil some separate charm to pa?'e. 

She was not violently lively, but 

Stole on youi' spirit like a May-day breaking ; 
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half shut, 

They put beholders in a tender taking ; 
She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 

From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking. 
The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
And timidly expanding into life. 

Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 
Juanna, playing with her veil or hair ; 

And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd. 
As if she pitied her for being there. 

174 DUDty. 

A pretty stranger without friend or guide, 
And all abash'd, too, at the general stare 
"Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, 
"With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. 

Dudii, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 
Not very dashing, but extremely winning. 

With the most regulated charms of feature, 
Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning 

Against proportion — the wild strokes of natiu'e 
Which they hit off at once in the beginning, 

Full of expression, right or wi'ong, that strike. 

And pleasing, or unpleasing, stUl are like. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth. 
Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet. 

Luxuriant, budding ; cheerftd withoiit mirth. 
Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 

Than are your mighty passions and so forth. 

Which some call " the sublime : " I wish they'd tiy it : 

I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women ; 

And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 

But she was pensive more than melancholy. 
And serious more than pensive, and serene. 

It may be, more than either — ^not unholy 

Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have been. 

The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly 
Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen. 

That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; 

She never thought about herself at all. 

W-;i*,iy C, 

ILAIffilf ■ 5'SMCIEI®S©IS,. 



But first of little Leila we'll dispose ; 

For like a day-dawn she was young and pure, 
Or like the old comparison of snows, 

WMcli are more pure than pleasant to be sure. 
Like many people everybody knows, 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge. 
Who might not profit much by being at large. 

Besides, he had found out he was no tutor, 
(I msh that others would find out the same ;) 

And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter. 
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 

So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor 
To make his little wild Asiatic tame. 

Consulting " the Society for Vice 

Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 


Olden she was — ^but had been veiy young ; 

Virtuous she was — and had been, I believe ; 
Although the world has such an evil tongue 

That -but my chaster ear will not receive 

An echo of a syllable that's wrong : 

In fact, there's nothing makes me so much grieve, 
As that abominable tittle-tattle, 
Which is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talked about — 
As who has not, if female, young, and pretty ? 

But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd about ; 
She merely Avas deem'd amiable and witty. 

And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd about : 
Then she was given to charity and pity, 

And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 

For being a most exemplary wife. 

High ia high cii'cles, gentle in her own. 
She was the mild reprover of the young, 

Whenever — ^which means every day — they'd shown 
An awkward inclination to go wi'ong. 

The quantity of good she did 's unknown, 
Or at the least would lengthen out my song : 

In brief, the little orphan of the East 

Had raised an interest in her, Avhich increased. 



And then there was — but wliy should I go on, 
Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 

Indeed a certam fail* and fairy one, 

Of the best class, and better than her class, — 

Aurora Eaby, a young star who shone 

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 

A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 

Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 

Child to the care of guardians good and hind ; 
But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! 

Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 
Feelings of youth like those which overthi'own lie 

By death, when we are left, alas ! behind, 
To feel, in Mendless palaces, a home 
Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 



Early in years, and yet more infantine 
In figure, slie liacl sometMng of sublime 

In her eyes wliicli sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. 
All youth — but with an aspect beyond time ; 

Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline ; 
Mournful — but mornful of another's crime, 

She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 

And grieved for those who could return no more. 

She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere. 
As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 

And deem'd that fallen worship far more dear 

Perhaps because 'twas fallen : her sires were proud 

Of deeds and days when they had fiU'd the ear 
Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 

To novel power ; and as she was the last, 

She held theii' old faith and old feelings fast. 

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew 
As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 

As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, 
And kept her heart serene within its zone. 

There was awe in the homage which she drew ; 
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 

Aj^art from the surrounding world, and strong 

In its o\vn strength — most strange in one so young ! 

Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, 
Although her birtli and wealth had given her vogue, 

Beyond the charmers we have already cited ; 


Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 

Against lier being mentiou'd as well fitted, 
By many virtnes, to be worth the trouble 
Of single gentlemen wbo would be double. 

And tMs omission, like that of the bust 

Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 
Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 

This he express'd half smiling and half serious ; 
When Adeline replied with some disgust, 

And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 
She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 
As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Eaby ? " 

Little Aui'ora deem'd she was the theme 
Of such discussion. She was there a guest ; 

A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 

Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest, 

Which flow'd on for a moment in the beam 
Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 

Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled— 

She had so much, or little, of the child. 

The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 

Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine, 
Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 

Juan was something she could not divine. 
Being no sibyl in the new world's ways ; 

Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor. 

Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 


His fame too, — for ibe had that kind of fame, 

WLicli sometimes plays the deuce with womankind, 

A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame. 

Half virtues and whole vices being combined ; 

Faults which attract because they are not tame ; 
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they blind : — 

These seals upon her wax made no impression. 

Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 

Juan knew naught of such a character — 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee ; 

Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 
The island gii-1, bred up by the lone sea, 

More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 
Was Nature's all : Aurora could not be, 

Nor would be thus : — the difference in them 

"Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 

©3if ]P)CT^3rai,K]E, 


She was a fine and somewhat full-bloAvn blonde, 

Desirable, distinguisli'd, celebrated 
For several winters in tbe grand, grand inonde. 

I'd rather not say wliat might be related 
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 

Besides, there might be falsehood in what's stated. 
Her late performance had been a dead set 
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

This noble personage began to look 
A little black upon this new flirtation ; 

But such small licenses must lovers brook. 
Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 

Wo to the man who ventm-es a rebuke ! 
'Twill but precipitate a situation 

Extremely disagreeable, but common 

To calculators when they count on woman. 


The circle smiled, then wliisper'd, and then sneer'd ; 

The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; 
Some hoped things might not turn ont as they fear'd ; 

Some would not deem such women coiild be found ; 
Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard ; 

Some look'd perplex' d, and others look'd profound : 
And several pitied with sincere regi'et 
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

But what is odd, none ever named the duke, 

Who, one might think, was something in the affair ; 

True, he was absent, and, 'twas rumor'd, took 
But small concern about the when, or Avhere, 

Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
Her gayeties, none had a right to stare : 

Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, 

"Which ever meets, and therefore can't fall out. 

Lo ! a monk, aiTay'd 

In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, appear'd, 

Now in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade. 
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard ; 

His garments only a slight murmur made ; 
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird. 

But slowly ; and as he pass'd Juan by. 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 


Juan was petrified ; lie had heard a hint 

Of such a spirit in these halls of old, 
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't 

Beyond the rumor "which such spots unfold, 
Coin'd from sui'viviug superstition's mint, 

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold. 
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
And did he see this ? or was it a vapor ? 

Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the thing of air, 
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place : 

And Juan gazed i:pon it with a stare. 

Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 

As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
Twine like a knot of snakes around his face ; 

He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not granted. 

To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

The thiixl time, after a still longer pause. 

The shadow pass'd away- — but where ? the hall 

Was long, and thus far there w'as no great cause 
To think his vanishing unnatural : 

Doors there were many, through which, by the laws 
Of j)hysics, bodies whether short or tall 

Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 

Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 

He stood — how long, he knew not, but it seem'd 
An age — exjiectant, po^verless, Avith his eyes 

Strain'd on the spot w'here first the figure gleam'd ; 
Then by degrees recalled his energies. 


And would liave pass'd the whole off as a dream, 

But could not wake ; lie was, lie did sui'mise, 
■•Waking already, and retiu-n'd at lengtk 
Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 

The door flew wide, not swiftly, — but, as fly 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 

And then s^yung back ; nor close — but stood awiy. 
Half letting in long shadows on the light. 

Which stOl ui Juan's candlesticks burn'd high. 
For he had two, both tolerably bright, 

And iu the door-way, darkening darkness, stood 

The sable friar in his solemn hood. 

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
The night before ; but being sick of shaking. 

He first inclined to think he had been mistaken ; 
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking ; 

His own internal ghost began to awaken 

Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking — 

Hinting that soul and body on the whole 

Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce. 
And he arose, advanced — the shade retreated : 

But Juan, eager now the truth to jDierce, 

Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated. 

Resolved to trust the mystery carte and tierce. 
At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 


The ghost stopp'cl, menaced, then retired, until 
He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. 

Juan put forth one arm — Eternal powers ! 

It touch'd no soul, no body, but the wall, 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, 

Checker'd with all the tracery of the hall ; 
He shudder' d, as no doubt the bravest cowers 

When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. 
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity. 

But still the shade remain'd : the blue eyes glared, 
And rather variably for stony death ; 

Yet one thing, rather good the grave had spared, 
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath : 

A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ; 
A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, 

Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 

The moon peep'd, just escaped fi-om a gray cloud. 

And Juan, puzzled, but still cmious, thrust 

" His other arm forth— Wonder ujaon wonder ! 
It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, 

Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. 
He found, as people on most trials must, 

That he had made at first a silly blunder, 
And that in his confusion he had caught 
Only the wall, instead of what he sought. 



The glaost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul 
As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 

Forth into something much like flesh and blood ; 

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, 

And they reveal'd— alas ! that e'er they should ! 

In fall, voluptuous, but not o'ergiown bulk, 

The phantom of her frolic Grace — Fitz-Fulke ! 


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